


I've Been Clumsy With Your Heart Again

by QueenoftheDustPeople



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Enemies to Lovers, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:15:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 101,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29156430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenoftheDustPeople/pseuds/QueenoftheDustPeople
Summary: "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a spouse!"Niall wants to fall in love with someone (not with Harry, probably). Harry wants to figure out why he cares so much (about Niall, specifically).Otherwise known as the Narry Pride and Prejudice AU that literally nobody asked for.
Relationships: Liam Payne/Sophia Smith, Niall Horan/Harry Styles, Perrie Edwards/Zayn Malik
Comments: 17
Kudos: 69





	1. All of my life, it's been heartbreak weather, thinkin' to myself it won't get better

**Author's Note:**

> This is the result of me waking up one morning and randomly thinking “huh, wouldn’t a Narry version of Pride and Prejudice be funny?” without realizing that my brain would take it seriously. A handful of scattered scenes turned into over 100k words and after 2+ months of writing and editing and rewriting, here we are. We’re flinging caution and sense to the wind! Little Moreton Hall, Gawsworth Hall, Capesthorne Hall, and Lyme Park are all real places in Cheshire (though not all in the towns they’re set in), so feel free to google them for reference photos. Niall and Sophia are twins because I miss Sophiam, basically. Other names are just thrown around for filler, so don't think too hard about whether it makes sense. Niall looks like current day Niall with the messy floofy brown hair and Harry looks like 2014/2015 long haired Harry because I said so. It’s the 1800s and gay relationships/marriages are common and openly accepted because don’t ask questions just fucking roll with it. Grab your cravats and your ballgowns, losers, we’re going pining.
> 
> Sorry to the ghost of Jane Austen for my fuckery with your plot. Some scenes are inspired by the 1995 tv series and 2005 movie. Title for the overall fic comes from All Time Low’s Clumsy, title for the chapter comes from Niall Horan's Heartbreak Weather.

The little village of Congleton, nestled in the green hills of Cheshire and on the bank of the River Dane, seemed to exist in its own realm, as though invisible walls surrounded the town limits, blocking out outside influence and noise. Everyone in Congleton knew everyone else, knew all their business and gossiped about it at every meal. Births and marriages, affairs and scandals, heartbreaks and deaths—every scrap of news was something to dissect for Congleton, and the bigger the news was, the longer it stayed on people's tongues over their teacups. Few things had shaken the town as much as the news that Little Moreton Hall, one of the village's oldest and grandest homes, had been handed over to an Irish family that nobody in Congleton had ever heard of before.

Old Mr. Walstrop, the former owner of Little Moreton Hall, was a notorious grouch, a recluse within the beautiful home with its black and white walls and countless windows, all of which Mr. Walstrop had let fall into disrepair. When Mr. Walstrop died, there were few in Congleton who mourned his passing. He was buried on a rainy day, the local preacher doggedly continuing his sermon in the town church while rain dripped through the roof. That night, the main question on everyone's lips was who would take over Little Moreton Hall. Mr. Walstrop had no heirs, his wife having died childless so long ago that few people even remembered her.

A solicitor arrived from London, a proud man with a top hat and cane he carried more for fashion than anything else. He spent nearly a month digging through Mr. Walstrop's belongings, poring over wrinkled and faded letters and journals, taking frequent trips back to London to consult acquaintances on Mr. Walstrop's family tree. Eventually, it was discovered that Mr. Walstrop had two distant relatives that could inherit Little Moreton Hall. The second in line was a child, a boy not much older than 10 that was Mr. Walstrop's second cousin twice removed (or something like that—nobody in town could ever keep it straight). And the closest relative was, in fact, not even English at all.

The solicitor preened in the town tavern, flaunting his masterful skills that had enabled him to uncover the most unusual connection. Mr. Walstrop had been one of 10 siblings (all of Congleton agreed that his mother had done her duty quite well). His younger brother had gone to Ireland for business and wound up marrying an Irish woman. Their children had children, one of whom was a Mr. Robert Horan. And it was in the lap of said Mr. Horan that Little Moreton Hall now fell. The news sent the town into a tizzy that had almost reached the boiling point by the time Mr. Horan, his wife, and their five blue-eyed children arrived in Congleton on a crisp October morning to move into their new home.

When the dust of gossip had settled and the gloss of the new arrival had faded, the Horan family had become such a part of Congleton that, if not for their accents, one would think they'd lived there since the start.

///

Little Moreton was a house where peace _only_ came early in the day, when dawn was breaking and everyone that made noise (from the humans to the animals) was still fast asleep. It's the reason Niall forces himself to be something of a morning person even when every bone in his body longs for the chance to keep sleeping until the sun’s fully risen and someone’s physically making him get up. He loves his family (most of the time), but they’re all loud and it’s nice to start the day off with some quiet.

He gets up, dragging himself out of his small bed and tugging on clean clothes before leaving his attic bedroom, trying to keep his steps quiet on the rickety stairs as he goes to collect his twin sister, Sophia. Every morning—provided the weather is acceptable—Niall and Sophia go for a morning walk on the fields and roads behind the family home, talking about everything and anything as the rising sun breaks through the fog. They've been doing this for years and it’s now something the rest of Congleton expects if they’re out early in the morning. The Horan twins, out with their matching caramel hair and bright blue eyes, laughing heads bent towards each other as they chattered away with their lingering Irish accents.

Niall treasures these morning walks with his twin, who he’s easily closer to than anyone else in the world after everything they've been through together. He knows her maybe better than he knows himself and trusts her with _everything._ They depend on each other to stay balanced and sane while dealing with their hectic, scatterbrained family, and their morning walks are one of the only things that gets Niall through the day.

As usual, they return to a house rumbling awake, the sound of their three younger sisters squabbling over petty things and their mother clucking louder than the chickens in the coop outside. Niall's barely settled into his chair for breakfast, already reaching for a hot roll, when his mother takes a deep breath and begins her daily morning sermon. Even more consistent than the walks, as neither rain nor snow would deter Maura Horan from her duty of reminding her children that they were all still shamefully unwed.

"It is a truth _universally_ acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a spouse!"

"Yes, mama, but we don't _have_ a good fortune," Niall replies patiently. His family has just enough money to live comfortably, but Niall knows the cost of 5 women's wardrobes.

"Don’t you play the fool with me, Niall!" his mother snaps, waving her ever-present fan at her face, "You are your father's only heir! If you don't marry well, this house will fall into _utter_ ruin!" Niall sighs, rather wishing that they'd made their walk last longer. His head's not nearly clear enough this morning to handle this. "If you don't marry well, there is simply _no way_ that we can afford good dowries for everyone. And what will happen to your sisters then, hmm? Sophia's getting long in the tooth to be unmarried, you know. Who _knows_ who will take her at this point!" He frowns, glancing over to see Sophia wincing down at her roll, only half buttered.

It's all a song and dance Niall's been hearing for years now, long before he'd become a man in anyone's eyes. He's the only son, he must marry well, everything hangs on his shoulders, etc. He sometimes wishes that his family had never left their quaint little home in Mullingar, that his father hadn't suddenly inherited a small fortune and a grand (albeit shabby) house in England. They'd been considered gentry in Ireland too, of course, but England has different rules and far more marriage competition. Niall's not sure that his mother cares for _anything_ more than she cares about the marriage market. He's quite positive that she could close her eyes and recite the entirety of Debrett's without looking at the book for reference once. Considering they never go to London and, therefore, their chances of running into eligible peers is quite low, he can’t help but think that she did it just to make a point that she _could._

"Sophia's the most beautiful girl in Cheshire, Mama. I have no doubt that she'll find a perfect match," he says, winking back at his twin. Her soft cheeks flush as she shoots him a grateful smile. Honestly, Niall thinks that 21 isn't _that_ absurd of an age to be still unmarried but he knows that society doesn't agree. He and Sophia should've been married off the moment they turned 18, because the following day brought them on the first step closer to being forever "on the shelf".

His mother sniffs over her steaming teacup, "Beauty does not linger with age! Your other sisters are all out and that's _four_ unmarried daughters to manage on top of one _ungrateful_ son! I don't know if my poor heart can continue to handle that stress, that _worry!"_ Knowing that it's rude to roll his eyes, Niall resorts instead to buttering his roll with a bit too much force, crumbs flaking off onto his plate and into his lap.

The issue, much to his mother’s distress, is that Niall's long since decided that he'll never marry for anything other than love. Not riches, not looks, not titles, not even a good shag. He supposes that his parents' tumultuous marriage may have something to do with that—his distant, dreaming father and overbearing, overwrought mother clashing daily and leaving him and Sophia to raise their siblings when they were little more than children themselves. Shackling himself to someone for life who he _doesn't_ love seems like torture. He'd rather inherit Little Moreton on his own, perhaps become the local permanent bachelor. He's been told that that's something like what the previous owner was, though Niall's resolved to not be such a miser.

Sophia's always been more pragmatic with her wedding goals, trying to find a marriage to someone she can deem acceptable that also helps their family's frequently tight purse strings, and only her shyness and preoccupation with keeping their family together has held her back so far. But that's how the two of them have always been. Niall's the dreamer, head quite at home in the clouds while he lets problems roll off his back. He cares about his family and his friends and that's about it if he’s being honest. He's only got the one life, after all, and sees no point in spending the whole thing worrying. Sophia's the practical one, her feet firmly on the ground and her dreams strictly within the confines of what she thinks is rational. Niall's proud of the times he's managed to break her out of her shell, but he knows that she's yanked him back from doing something foolish far more often.

"Mama! Mama, a letter!" Perrie's the first to bound into the room, a short and curvy blur of rose-pink linen, with Julia close at her heels and Ashlyn trailing behind, nose buried in a book as usual. Niall’s always found it a little funny, the way that he and Sophia both inherited their father’s brown hair while his other three sisters all have the same pale gold as their mother used to have. If it weren’t for the blue eyes, the only thing tying them all together, he’s always thought they’d look like two entirely separate groups of siblings. His youngest sister skids to a stop next to their mother, waving a letter in her face. The letter's already opened—Perrie's never really been one for maintaining privacy—and Maura shakes it open as she sets her teacup down.

There's one brilliant moment of silence, enough to give Niall the mere taste of relief, before Maura squeals with glee. She scrambles to her feet, skirts flouncing, "Mr. Horan! Mr. Horan!" Niall sighs into his tea, reaching for another roll just to stop himself from making any comments that will get him slapped upside the head with his mother's fan.

His father, Bobby, lopes into the room, newspaper under his arm and wire glasses perched on the crooked bridge of his nose, "Come now, my dear, surely there is no need for such a racket this early. I doubt anything can be _that_ important." Niall's father's always been more of a vague presence in his life, locked up in his study or out fishing for hours on end, but he's never minded that quite so much. He supposes that he'd taken his father's lack of attention over his mother's extreme scrutiny any day.

"But it is!" Maura shrieks, the lopsided knot of grey hair on top of her head bouncing as she stomps her foot. "Look!" she jabs the letter in front of Bobby's face, ignoring his sigh, "Mrs. Markham from the village has written to say that old Gawsworth Hall has finally been bought! And by an _eligible bachelor_ at that, a _Mr. Payne_! She says he's worth at _least_ five thousand crowns a year!"

"Well," Bobby sinks into his chair at the head of the dinner table with a huff, "How pleasant for Mr. Payne. But I fail to see why that should concern us." He winks at Niall before unfolding his newspaper again.

" _Mr. Horan!_ Surely, you must realize that we have _five_ unmarried children. You should—no, you _must_ introduce yourself to this Mr. Payne when he arrives at Gawsworth."

"Whyever _must_ I do that?"

Niall's always quite admired his mother's ability to make noises he's certain can only be heard by dogs and possibly small children. Her cheeks are turning ruddier by the second and he can almost see steam pouring from her ears like their old kettle when the maid leaves it over the fire for too long. " _Because_ I cannot take the girls over there until you have introduced yourself! It wouldn't be seemly!"

Niall's got a too-large bite of roll in his mouth when he hears his father muse, "Have Niall go over there then. He's my heir, certainly that would fall along the lines of propriety, hmm? And who knows, perhaps the man would prefer an eligible bachelor himself. I know Niall wouldn't mind either." Niall chokes on the fluffy, doughy bread, barely managing to not spit it out over his plate. Sophia snorts into her tea, eyes twinkling with mirth over the chipped rim of her cup, and Ashlyn throws him a slightly concerned look as she turns the pages of her novel. She looks particularly pale this morning, hair loosely braided over her shoulder, and he makes a mental note to try and convince her to at least sit outside for a while today if it stays sunny. He worries about Ashlyn the most out of his three younger sisters. Perrie and Julia are a force to be reckoned with, permanently giddy, foolish, and energetic. Ashlyn, on the other hand, is quiet and reserved and Niall doubts she’d ever leave the house if she had the choice.

Most of his family has no issue with Niall being interested in both men and women—really, he has no clue why anyone would ever close themselves off from options—except for his mother, who continues to lament that him marrying a man would result in zero "proper grandchildren" for her to dote on. Niall’s never bothered bringing up the fact that there are ways around that, that he’d hardly be the first man to marry another man and still father children one way or another, because he knows a pointless argument when he sees it.

Also, it’s nigh impossible to win an argument against his mother on anything relating to marriages at all.

"It _cannot_ be Niall!" Maura insists, "It _must_ be you! I do believe that you act like this solely to test my poor nerves!" She waves her hand, clearly expecting her fan to be there. Julia helpfully snatches the fan off the edge of the table, handing it over.

"On the contrary, dear, I have the utmost care for your nerves. My oldest and dearest companions, they are, ever since the day we met."

Niall manages to swallow, clearing his throat enough to croak, "I truly don't mind, father. Be happy to go over there and say hello if you need me to." His mother's fan smacks the back of his head, making him hiss and duck down before he can get hit again.

"I _insist_ that you be the one to do it, Mr. Horan!"

"Then what a relief it shall be to you, dear wife, to learn that I've already arranged to go to Gawsworth Hall tomorrow morning to meet this mysterious Mr. Payne," his father says from behind his newspaper, "I'd quite like to see the state of his library anyway."

The combined gleeful shrieks of his mother and two youngest sisters leave Niall's ears ringing for the rest of the morning.

///

Usually, only thing that ever got their tiny village so worked up was when the militia would come through, either to or from Manchester, but it became quickly apparent that the arrival of Mr. Payne and his companions had worked up the same level of fervor. Niall's sure that Mrs. Watson and her dress shop are about to overflow their coffers and deplete their stock of fabric with the influx of mamas and unmarried daughters rushing in to buy new dresses and ribbons just to try and draw the attention of the newcomers. If he must hear about Mr. Payne's " _five thousand pounds a year!"_ one more time, Niall thinks he might take up highway robbery just to clear out the man's pockets a little and level the playing field.

It culminates with nights like tonight, with what feels like the entirety of the village cramming themselves in their best clothes in the closest thing Congleton has to an assembly hall. Usually, things spill out the doors of the place, which must be nearly 200 years old and showing its age in the cracked windows and groaning floorboards. But tonight, everyone is inside and trying to catch a glimpse of the town’s newest residents.

And here Niall is, staring up at the candle-laden chandeliers on the ceiling sparkling with cobwebs and wax drips, and wishing he were anywhere else. He's never liked enclosed spaces like this and even with all the windows open, the sheer crush of people makes the room sweltering hot. He's already had to fend off three determined mothers as well, one of his least favorite hobbies. Niall knows he wasn't the most eligible bachelor in town even _before_ Mr. Payne and his companions arrived, but that certainly hasn't stopped anyone from pursuing him like he's the heir to the bloody throne. He’s had his fun with people in the town who knew how to be discreet in their efforts to have a good time, but nothing’s ever been permanent. Just a chance for him to hone his Irish charm and have a few good romps in bed as a bonus.

When they'd first arrived in Congleton, Niall's mother had tried her hardest to stamp out any traces of their accents, fretting that nobody would want to marry them if they sounded _too Irish._ But she'd given up when it had proved utterly impossible and, in the end, Niall was pleased to find that his accent made him more appealing. At least, it's pleasing when he _wants_ to appeal to someone. Less pleasing when it's making it easier for people to simper over his charm in the hopes that he'll propose.

"Save me!" he hisses, ducking behind Sophia's shoulder as he watches Mrs. Palvin and her willowy daughter Barbara—pretty enough and a half-decent kisser, but lacking the spark Niall firmly insists on—scan the room to try and find him.

"You know, I think Barb is a perfectly sweet girl," Sophia murmurs even as she takes a step to the left, perfectly shielding Niall from view.

"She is but I don't love her," he stands up straighter once he sees the gigantic, vibrant blue peacock feather on Mrs. Palvin's hat get farther away, "And her mother is so _determined_ too, almost as much as Mama is. I feel like it’s some sort of infection every mother gets at a certain age, one that makes them all insufferably demanding about marriage."

“Every parent wants to see their children well-settled, Nialler.”

“Don’t see many fathers getting all up in arms about it though,” their father couldn’t care less about whether any of them marry—or at least, he’s not nearly as concerned about showing it.

“It’s different for mothers, I think,” Sophia frowns, reaching up to brush a little fluff ball off the shoulder of his worn velvet jacket. Niall had happily agreed to let his sisters have any money that he would otherwise use to keep his own wardrobe fashionable, since their goals are more important, and he doesn't mind wearing clothes that have been mended a few times over. "And really, you could _learn_ to love Barbara, couldn't you? Her mother—well, not to be rude, but her mother won't be around forever."

"I could learn to love a porcelain doll or a very pretty horse, Soph. I don't want to _learn how_ to love someone. I just want to love them like that," he says with a snap of his fingers.

"I know, I know, you always say that but you're going to end up sad and alone unless you start being realistic."

"What happens, happens," he replies with a shrug, leaning against the wall and straightening his jacket, "I shall be everyone's favorite uncle, I've told you that. You'll all bring your children to visit and I'll sneak them sweets and teach them how to ride. I'll make sure all the nooks and crannies of Little Moreton are clear of spiderwebs so they're good for hide and seek."

Sophia's frown only deepens, her forehead knitting together, and it's almost enough to make him guilty. His sister should never look like that, especially when it's from worrying about _him._ She smooths out his lapel and tries (pointlessly) to straighten his permanently crooked cravat, "You _deserve_ to be loved though, brother." She says that all the time, but his cheeks warm anyway. His mouth is half-open on a response when he hears his mother shouting Sophia's name over the din of the crowd. Sophia's eyes dim, knowing and exasperated already, "Don't leave me to handle this bit alone, Niall."

"Never, sis," he holds out his arm, escorting Sophia through the crowd of people, "Have you seen the mysterious guest of honor tonight?" He doesn't think he's seen anyone new since they'd arrived.

Sophia shakes her head, brown curls bouncing by her cheeks, "No, but Danielle saw him. Said he was quite handsome, maybe just a little older than us which is good. I was terrified that he'd be older than Papa and Mama would try to push me at him anyway."

"I'd never let you marry someone that old, Soph."

"I'm afraid that even your best efforts wouldn't stop Mama on that front when he's that well off, sadly," Sophia's mouth curls upwards into her most charming smile as they near their tittering mother. Maura's dressed in a dove grey gown tonight so laden with frills that Niall thinks she looks rather like an overflowing bucket of frothy dishwater. She's standing with the rest of his sisters—Julia and Perrie both visibly shaking with excitement in their matching blue dresses, Ashlyn looking like she'd rather be anywhere else (as usual), and three men.

Niall very much hopes that the brown-haired man in the middle, broad shouldered with bright hazel eyes and a wide grin, is Mr. Payne because he _feels_ Sophia's breath catch, feels her fingers clench his arm a little tighter. "Ah, yes, finally!" Maura says, "This is my eldest daughter, Sophia, and my only son, Niall." Niall bows, Sophia curtsies, and Niall would be entirely focused on his shy sister's bubbling happiness if he didn't meet the eyes of the tallest man and feel his own heart stutter. The man's eyes are _green,_ almost impossibly so, and Niall thinks they'd remind him of the hills back in Ireland if they didn't seem so disinterested, cold even. His chestnut hair is long, curling effortlessly around his shoulders rather than tied back like most men Niall knows with long hair. And his lips are _pink,_ mouth a little too wide and plush for his angular face. Not wanting to get caught staring, Niall forces himself to look back at his mother, "This is Mr. Liam Payne and his two companions, Mr. Louis Tomlinson and Mr. Harry Styles."

 _'Good,'_ Niall thinks as he watches Liam reach out to kiss the back of Sophia's hand tenderly, _'The right man is Mr. Payne.'_

"It's truly a pleasure to meet you all," Liam says brightly, "This whole village is ever so enchanting, and I look forward to spending time here." He doesn't take his eyes off Sophia as he talks.

"Yes, don't we all?" Louis looks less than _enchanted,_ thin lips drawn up in something rather like a scowl. He's all points and sharp edges, mousy brown hair loose around his blue eyes and his cravat starched within an inch of its life. Harry doesn't look much happier and Niall wonders if he smiles at all. He looks like he could have a mouth meant for smiling, Niall thinks—and then mentally slaps himself for bothering to think that. It's painfully clear that _Mr. Styles_ thinks himself above this whole place. It's in the critical glint in his eyes as he looks around, taking everything—Niall included—in and seeming to find it all wanting.

From the other end of the room, someone claps and the sound of a fiddle kicks in. The whole room shifts as people make way for people to dance. "May I, ah, may I have this dance, Miss Horan?" Liam asks, holding his hand out to Sophia.

"I would be honored, Mr. Payne," she replies, giving Niall one wide-eyed and cautiously giddy look before taking Liam's hand and heading for the open dance floor. Niall looks over at his sisters; Julia and Perrie gazing expectantly at Louis and Harry, obviously awaiting their own dancing invitations, and Ashlyn gazing purposefully at the ground in the hope of being ignored. But Louis bows, says something about seeing a friend (a patent lie, even Niall can see that), and Harry merely looks them all over, eyes lingering on Niall for just a moment, before bowing and disappearing without a word. Julia and Perrie huff, sharing matching pouts before Julia sees a group of men in militia uniforms and that distracts them enough to flounce off in search of more attention.

"How _rude!"_ Maura hisses, nose wrinkling, "Ah well, at least Mr. Payne asked Sophia to dance. Come on now, Niall, take Ashlyn out. God knows she's not going to get an offer from anyone else." His mother shoves Ashlyn, who was toeing at the wood floor with her satin slipper, in his direction.

Ashlyn whimpers, already inhaling to complain, so Niall leans in and whispers, "One dance, Ashe, then I swear I'll find you somewhere to hide." She pouts but takes his arm, letting him lead her through the crowd. He slips them in next to Sophia and Liam, wanting to keep an eye on a couple that can't keep their eyes off each other. He's never seen Sophia _glow_ like this, her grin freer and more effortless than he’s ever seen it. He wonders if she even _knows_ she’s smiling at all. "Alright, petal, don't worry about anything other than me, yeah?" Niall knows how much Ashlyn hates dancing, probably about as much as he does. She'd tripped at a country ball once, knocking over a pimple-faced boy, and Julia and Perrie never let her live it down. She only dances with Niall now and he's quite alright with that. They've always been more content to be the ones making the music, with the petite blonde behind her pianoforte and Niall clutching his guitar. On any other night, they’d probably be up with the musicians at the other end of the hall. But their mother had said they were strictly guests tonight so here they are, making the best of it as usual.

"Sophia looks so happy," Ashlyn whispers the next time they get close.

Niall grins, "She does, doesn't she?" Ashlyn nods, lip between her teeth as they step back. He can practically see her counting the beat in her head, trying to remember all the steps of the dance. Maybe his living alone future has room for Ashlyn in it too (especially if the obvious spark between Sophia and Liam leads somewhere).

When the dance ends, Sophia and Liam make no effort whatsoever to separate and find new partners. Niall knows that's improper, but he's certainly not going to point it out and he doubts his mother would either. But he had a promise to make, so he offers Ashlyn his arm and they work their way towards the edge of the room. Niall's sweating under his coat and he'd take it off if he didn't think he'd be killed by his mother for it. He manages to find them a table in the darkest corner of the room, half-obscured by a pile of stacked boxes, and watches as she gratefully sinks into a wobbly wooden chair. Niall takes the seat across from her, cracking the window and loosening his cravat just enough to feel the slight spring breeze coming in from outside. Another song is starting, the music struggling to be heard over the constant roar of conversation. "It will be odd," Ashlyn starts, resting her chin on her hand.

"What will?"

"When Sophia gets married. It'll be odd to not have her around, you know?" Ashlyn looks at him, round eyes rimmed with pale lashes, "But I think I'll hate it more when you get married, Nialler. I—I think the two of you are the only ones who really understand me in our family."

"Ah, Ashe," he reaches out, wrapping his fingers around her dainty wrist, "I promise—"

A voice wafts in from the open window, "I don't think I've ever wanted to be in London _more,_ I tell you. This place is so… _rural."_ Niall recognizes Louis Tomlinson's voice, reedy and sneering and high, and rolls his eyes. "Honestly, Liam, I don't see the appeal."

"I think Liam's found just about the only appealing thing in this place," a voice replies, low and smooth in a way that makes Niall shiver. Since he'd heard Liam talking to Sophia, he can only guess that that's _Harry's_ voice. Of course a man that attractive would be blessed to have a voice equally so.

"Isn't she lovely?" yes, that's Liam, smile evident in his warm words, "I swear, lads, I don't think I've ever seen anyone so beautiful." Ashlyn smiles, wider than she usually does, and Niall puts his finger over his lips to stop her from commenting.

In retrospect, he should've let her talk. Louis scoffs, "She's just about the only passable woman here from what I can tell. Especially compared to her _sisters_. Each one of them was plainer than the last, especially the palest. She might as well not even have been there." Ashlyn's smile falls in an instant and she hangs her head. Niall debates the benefits and consequences of leaping through the window to strangle Louis with his own starchy cravat.

"I think they're all quite lovely," Liam replies stoutly. A good man, Liam Payne. Niall doubts he'd have any objections to Sophia accepting _that_ engagement, should it ever come. "And their brother was quite handsome too, I thought! I saw you looking at him, Harry," Niall's glad that Ashlyn's still looking at the table, as it means she doesn't catch the way his cheeks heat up like traitors.

Harry hums, still sounding utterly bored, "He was tolerable, I suppose, but not nearly attractive or interesting enough to tempt me."

Niall grits his teeth, clenching his other hand into a fist under the table. _Tolerable._ He shouldn’t be as offended by such a simple word as he is, but maybe it’s just the contempt that dripped off every syllable that’s doing it. He looks back at his younger sister to see her frowning at him again, pale lips pursed. She leans in across the table, whispering, " _I_ think you're the most handsome and interesting man in Congleton—no, in _Cheshire!_ Mr. Styles doesn't know anything at all about you." No, he doesn't, and as far as Niall is concerned now, he never will. 

Niall forces a smile back on his face, "And I think that _you_ are far too beautiful for a man like Louis Tomlinson to even lay eyes on." Ashlyn's cheeks flush, the color even starker against the white of her skin, "Promise you, Ashe, men like him are a dime a bloody dozen in this world. Don't let words like that into your head. _"_ She nods hesitantly, chewing on her lip again. Even though the slight breeze is the only thing making the heat bearable, Niall reaches over and firmly shuts the window again.

///

"So, what did you think of the newcomers?" Holly asks as they walk along the river, footsteps in time and arm in arm.

"Why do you think I have an opinion of them at all?" Niall retorts, looking down at Holly. She’s one of his oldest friends in Congleton, starting from when she was brought over to play with his sisters and ended up tromping through the muddy shores of the nearby creek with him instead. When he was younger, he thought he might love her, but a few fumbling kisses had dimmed that thought. They're better off as friends, he thinks, able to banter in a way that Niall's mother finds unseemly, but he appreciates immensely. Holly's quick mind and sharp tongue are what makes her so perfect in Niall's opinion.

Holly giggles, "Because you have an opinion on _everything,_ of course. You just don't always share them."

The water babbles on next to them, swirling and bubbling over rocks and reeds at the edges of the riverbank. "Quite liked Mr. Payne, I suppose. He was kind to my family and obviously smitten with Sophia from the first sight," much to their mother's delight. She'd gushed over Liam's attention to Sophia all through breakfast the next morning despite his father's best attempts at stifling the endless discussion of minutia. Niall admires his mother's ability to make something from nothing, to make a discussion on the quality of Liam's cufflinks somehow link to his potential quality as a husband. She's managed to push it back to him as well, comparing every one of Liam's good qualities to some inadequacy on Niall's end. They did, at least, agree on one thing: Mr. Tomlinson and Mr. Styles were _quite_ rude. Only his mother was basing it on their refusal to dance with Niall's other sisters and Niall is basing it off the conversation he eavesdropped on. And that his mother was far more concerned with Mr. Styles’ fortune, even _larger_ than Mr. Payne’s, than Niall could ever be.

Sophia was more cautiously disappointed when he'd told her about it on their walk. She'd said that both men were out of line—"Ashlyn's coloring suits her very well and you're far more than _tolerable,_ Nialler"—but she also wasn't inclined to judge them entirely based off that conversation.

Sophia's far too nice.

"He _is_ quite handsome and charming. We spoke for a minute when he came and introduced himself to my father and he seemed all amiability to me."

"Somewhat like an overgrown puppy, I think," Niall keeps his voice solemn just to tease her and narrowly dodges the elbow to his side. Holly never pulls her punches, physically or verbally. He still has a scar on his knee from when she'd shoved him down a hill after he'd teased her about having a crush on an officer in the militia.

"And the other two?"

Niall works to make his expression neutral, "I have no opinion on either of them."

"Liar," she pinches his arm, hazel eyes narrowing up at him from under her straw bonnet, "Come on now, you know that I'm hardly going to go tattle if you don't feel charitably towards them."

He sighs, glancing back over the fields to their left, "Both of them refused to dance with any of my sisters and then—"

"And _then?"_ she prods when he stays silent for a beat too long.

"I was sitting with Ashe in the corner of the room—you know how she is about parties like that, can't stand them even more than me—and I'd opened the window because it was blasted hot in there with all the people and we…overheard a conversation," he chews on his nail as that balled up tangle of emotions rises in his belly again. He'd tried to parse it through afterwards, figure out what was anger and shame and hurt, but it seemed like more effort than Louis and Harry deserved. Didn't change the fact that he keeps looking at his reflection and wondering if he really is only _tolerable_.

"Eavesdropping rarely leads to good things, you know," it's not a true admonishment, Niall knows that. Even if it were, he wouldn't take it seriously, not when Holly's just as prone to gossiping as he is. As _anyone_ is in this town.

He rolls his eyes, " _Anyway_ , Mr. Tomlinson made a disparaging comment about my sisters, especially Ashe. Said they were all plain and she was the plainest of the bunch, like she wasn't even there. Could've throttled him for that."

"That was uncalled for," Holly says, tilting her head towards him, "and what is the opinion you don’t have on Mr. Styles?"

He chews harder on his nail, ignoring the pointed look Holly shoots him. This is his one habit he's never been able to rid himself of completely. He just doesn't want to sound _conceited,_ not in front of the one friend most likely to call him out on it. But she pinches him again, an obvious push to continue, so he says, " _Mr. Styles_ said that he found me merely _tolerable_ and not nearly interesting or attractive enough to tempt him. As if I was trying to tempt him in the first place."

Niall knows that _saying_ that at the end is more than enough proof that he _does_ care, as much as he hates to admit it. Harry’s the kind of man he normally avoids rather than attempts to tempt. Holly hums, pursing her pink lips, "You know, I thought Mr. Styles had exceptionally fine eyes when I saw him, but I do question his eyesight now. You're hardly a chore to look at, Niall." It’s probably a sign of vanity he’d like to ignore that he bites back a response of “I know that.” He might not be quite as _typically_ handsome as a gentleman like Harry, but he’s never been disappointed with his appearance. He’s certainly never had his unruly “floofy” (as Julia puts it) hair or unseemly (as his mother puts it) freckles get in the way of getting someone into bed.

"I just—I didn't even speak to him, Holls, and yet somehow he decided that I wasn’t _interesting_ anyway."

"Which is his loss, Niall, not your fault. If I were to be stranded on an island somewhere, I think I'd pick you to come with me. At best, you'd be good company and handy with finding us a way off said island. At worst, I think I could manage eating you to survive," she taps her chin as if truly considering the notion and then winks up at him, "Don't let him get to you though, dear. It was painfully obvious that he thought himself above the rest of us and that's not the type of man you want to go wasting your time on anyway. You’re too good for him."

"Thank you," he says, a little shocked by how much he _means_ it. It's not like him to let comments like Harry's get to him and he's not sure why the words are stuck in his head like this. Maybe he just needed the validation from someone he knows wouldn't lie to him.

"Of course," she replies easily, twirling a strand of fine strawberry blonde hair around her finger, "He’s not the type of man someone like you marries anyway. And I can say that, since I’m not the type of _woman_ someone like you marries either.”

He laughs, nudging her bonnet out of the way to kiss her temple, "You don't want to be married to me, Holls. I kick in bed something fierce and my mother's forever complaining that I eat with my elbows on the table. What kind of husband would I make, hmm?"

"A more than tolerable one, at least," she laughs with him this time, the sound echoing back at them from the hills.

///

“Mr. Payne’s Aunt has invited me to visit at Gawsworth,” Sophia says, half-frowning at the note that arrived before breakfast as though she’ll flip it over to find the words “just joking” written on the back.

“His Aunt?” Niall asks skeptically, leaning over Sophia’s shoulder to read.

“Of course, his _Aunt,”_ their mother snaps over her embroidery hoop, “He can hardly invite her over himself. It would be quite improper.”

“Can—would it be alright if I took the carriage, Papa?”

Their father’s mouth is only half-open when Maura cuts in over him, “Absolutely not. You can ride over on Bessie.”

“ _Ride?”_ Niall knows that Sophia’s not the biggest fan of riding, especially not alone and on their old work horse. Sophia glances out the window as a distant grumble of thunder echoes, “Mama, it’s about to storm something fierce.”

Niall does _not_ like the serene smile on Maura’s face. “Indeed. And if the storm continues, you’ll simply have to spend the night there. He certainly wouldn’t make you ride _back_ at night in the rain and his Aunt will be there as a chaperone. It’s the _perfect_ plan.”

“Mama,” Sophia starts weakly but Maura aims a pointed glare.

“You’ll do as I say, Sophia. And you best hurry if you want to get there before it starts raining,” Niall prepares to defend his twin, equally unwilling to see her ride over alone, but Sophia shakes her head, standing and slipping the letter into the pocket of her dress.

Less than fifteen minutes after Niall watches her round the curve of their driveway, the skies open with a vengeance.

///

If he thought Sophia Horan had the ability to tell a single lie, Harry would think this was all some sort of scheme. The girl had arrived at Liam's Aunt's (but actually Liam's) invitation two days ago, drenched to the bone like a sorry stray dog after riding the whole way in the rain for some unknown reason, and had fallen ill by nightfall. Liam's Aunt Eliza, originally only staying for a few days to oversee unpacking and help Liam get settled into the house with all the mastery of a middle-aged woman, had volunteered to stay at Gawsworth Hall until Sophia was well enough to travel back to her family's home. Harry had thought it was annoying enough to watch Liam pace endlessly through the house yesterday, checking on Sophia as frequently as his Aunt deemed appropriate, but today promises to be even worse as the girl still hasn't improved. Harry doesn't really get the fuss; as far as he can see, Sophia is rather dull and timid (albeit pretty), but Liam's so smitten that he doesn't want to mention that yet.

They're just finishing breakfast, Louis trying again to wheedle Liam into returning to London early and Liam steadfastly insisting that he’s quite enjoying his time here and has no urge to leave, when one of the butlers slips into the dining room and discreetly clears his throat. "Excuse me, sir, there is a Mr. Horan at the door. He is, ah, somewhat indisposed," the man says.

"Indisposed?" Liam asks, head tilting in that way that always reminds Harry of a confused puppy.

From the hall, someone shouts, "He means I'm proper covered in mud and would rather not track it through your house!" There's a long pause, during which the butler looks vaguely like he wants to die of embarrassment and Louis' eyes nearly roll out of his head, and then the shout comes again, "Also, this is Niall Horan! I'm here to see my sister!" Harry supposes that there are only two Mr. Horans to speak of and he'd met the elder one a few days ago when he'd come by to introduce himself to Liam. Harry had barely paid attention, more interested in working on business than listening to a doddering country man wax on about the beauty of Liam's library.

"Oh! Of course, he must come in! I'm sure we can assist with a change of clothes, right?" Liam says as he stands, bounding to his feet and beaming like a schoolboy. The butler bows and slips out the door again.

"Something's wrong with that family, Haz, I'm telling you," Louis mutters over his tea. Harry hums, not wanting to get Liam's attention. But Louis isn't _wrong._ Outside of dull-Sophia and unremarkable-Niall, Harry had seen more than he needed to of the rest of the Horan family at the ball last night. The two youngest sisters were an embarrassment, flirting with any man that walked by, but he could somewhat excuse that due to their obvious youth. Mrs. Horan, on the other hand—well, Harry's always made it his mission to avoid women like that, so set on making matches for their children that they lose all common sense and propriety. His mother might be getting impatient to see him at an altar with someone, but she’s never acted like a lunatic because of it.

Harry leans back in his chair, watching as the morning sun climbs higher on the cream-colored wall, making a crystal vase by the door shimmer and cast rainbows across every surface. There’s so much _sun_ in this house, aided by the fact that there’s nothing to get in the way of the spotless windows, something that he’d never get to see in London.

It's not that Harry doesn't _enjoy_ rural life. It has its charms, its innate beauty in the little things that he loves. Capesthorne is one of his favorite places in the world to be, really, and one of the few places he can truly feel like he’s at _home_ and it’s safe to be himself. It's the _culture_ that gets under his skin. Especially in a town like this where everyone knows everyone and has their noses in each other's business. London gossips like it's an art form, tiny towns like Congleton gossip because there's nothing better to do. Liam always says that Harry's standards are too high. Harry's always just thought he had more good sense than everyone else.

When the door opens again, the butler looks marginally more composed despite holding a pair of absurdly muddy boots out like they're going to bite him. He bows and then steps aside, "Mr. Niall Horan, sir."

Niall walks into the room without a hint of unease and for a moment, Harry thinks that it can't be the same man he saw last night. The man last night had a crooked cravat and a worn jacket several seasons out of fashion, plain eyes and common brown hair. The man walking in _now_ , framed perfectly by that wide, warm sunbeam as if God himself is making a point, has brilliant summer sky blue eyes and wavy hair the color of melted caramel. Harry blinks and then blinks again, waiting for the drab boy from last night to reappear. "My apologies for the unannounced visit and improper appearance and all," Niall says with a shrug, "All the rain left the roads quite muddy and my other sisters had the carriage so they could go into town, so I had to walk." He's got mud on his breeches, the navy fabric stretched tight over his thighs and worn a little at the knees. Harry can only assume that his jacket was dirtied too, as he's wearing a simple white shirt, unbuttoned at the top and no cravat at all. It's patently unacceptable to display that much skin in good company, but Harry would rather die than tell him to button his shirt and cover up that dusting of chest hair.

This is absolutely _absurd._ "Please, please, there's no need to apologize. I'm sure you were worried about your sister," Liam's already rounding the edge of the table to shake Niall's hand eagerly.

"Quite a bit. Soph's my twin, don't think I could ever worry about anyone else more than her," Harry knew that the Horans were Irish, but he wasn't expecting Niall's accent to be that _strong_. The way he rolls his r makes Harry mildly desperate to hear Niall say his name. He realizes that Niall's staring at _him,_ brows furrowed, and glances back down at his book just to avoid that gaze and try to regain his composure because his own pants have gotten far tighter than is remotely appropriate. "I don't want to impose too much. If you could just direct me to where she's staying so I could check on her…" he trails off.

"Yes, of course! I'd be happy to take you upstairs. I believe my Aunt is keeping her company. I want to assure you that we are taking the utmost care of your sister…" as the door shuts behind Liam and Niall, cutting the conversation out to an indistinguishable murmur, Harry lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Did you see him?" Louis asks, "Mud all the way up to his thighs!"

"A mess," Harry replies, trying to not let his mind linger for too long on the image of Niall's thighs. For God's sake, the man had traipsed into the place like it was a stable, no care whatsoever to how things _should_ be done. Harry has better things to think about, surely. He _must._ He tries his best to turn his attention back to his book but it’s harder than he wants it to be.

Louis starts talking again, going on about the more exciting and dignified things they could be doing in London and how much longer Liam is going to make them sit in this nothing little village. Harry neglects to remind him that Liam had promised Sophia and her sisters at the end of the party the other night that he would hold a spring ball here at Gawsworth for the entire village, which means they'll be stuck here for _at least_ a few more weeks. Hardly ideal for him when Liam's infatuation with the Horan girl means continuing to associate with that family. With Niall.

That only becomes more evident when Liam and Niall return and Liam brightly announces that Niall will be staying at Gawsworth until his sister has recovered enough to return home. It will allow his Aunt to return to her home in Wolverhampton while maintaining that gloss of propriety required for an unmarried woman. Harry would say that Niall in all his muddy, rumpled glory is the last person he’d pick to guard anyone’s reputation, but he gets the feeling that Niall _is_ the kind of person to defend his sisters to the death. Harry could respect that, at least, if nothing else about Niall seems respectable in the slightest. "Perhaps you can show us around Congleton more. I'm sure you know the entire village like the back of your hand," Liam offers as he sits back down. Niall sinks into the chair across from Harry, running his hands through his hair that looks velvet soft, thick, and shiny in the sunlight like it’s begging to be touched.

"Lived here for around 15 years, so I'd say I know it well enough," Niall says with a shrug, "I don't mind giving you a tour. Better than sitting around and feeling like I'm merely wasting space or hovering over Sophia."

"Your family won't miss you at home?" Harry asks, surprising himself in the process. Niall's eyes—so _blue_ they could make the clearest sky look dull and colorless in comparison—flicker over to him as if he's surprised too.

But then he chuckles, the sound traveling like lightning straight to Harry’s core. Nobody should have a laugh like that. "I’m just going to hope that they can manage for a few days without Sophia and me there. I don’t _think_ we'll come home to find the house burned down, at least." Harry hums, glancing down at his book again. He's not even sure what the last line he read was, but Niall's laugh is echoing in his ears, bright and warm and free. Who _is_ this boy even, stomping his uninvited way into Harry's orderly life? Harry will just ignore him and surely, the shine will wear off Niall Horan and he'll think straight again. When they've finished tea and Liam is getting antsy to keep moving, they decide to start off on their Niall-led excursion. At least it's a nice day, Harry supposes, and maybe they can avoid going into town and dealing with all the people there looking at them like they’re a foreign species entirely.

Niall's putting on his boots, now freshly cleaned and sparkling in a way that only seems to highlight their worn state, when Liam says, "I hope you don't mind showing us around. I do appreciate it and I promise that we'll be good company." Liam is always so concerned about winning people over, making sure that he's _liked_ even among people patently beneath him. Harry doubts he'll ever understand it. He’s always polite—his mother would kill him otherwise—but he doesn’t see the reason in putting so much _effort_ into building friendships with people so far outside his social circle.

"Don't mind it at all, actually. It's a lovely day out, perfect for a nice walk," Niall stands again, tugging his jacket on, "I know I'm not that interesting to city folk like you, so I just hope that my company proves _tolerable_ enough for you all." He levels Harry with one pointed look before turning and strolling out the front door. Louis does a pitiful job at concealing his snort while Liam scowls over at Harry as if silently berating him for being rude. Harry's not sure _how_ Niall overheard that comment—because he _had_ to have overheard it somehow, with that look he gave Harry—and he's not entirely alright with the acidic burn of guilt in his stomach at the thought.

///

It's been years since Niall's seen the inside of Gawsworth Hall, and the old owner wasn't doing much to keep the house looking its best. Liam isn't entirely moved in yet, but the house is already looking to be in far better shape. Niall doesn't want to touch anything, as if the slightest brush of his fingers would ruin the majesty of it. He remembers coming to England for the first time, seeing Little Moreton towering in white and black over him, and feeling like he was looking at a palace compared to their modest manor house back in Mullingar. Staying at Gawsworth dwarves that feeling entirely.

"Do you need anything else, Soph?" Niall asks as he tucks a blanket higher around Sophia's shoulders. She's still pale, hair sticking to the sweat on her forehead and her cheeks sallow.

"I need to know that you're being polite downstairs," she rasps.

"Of course I'm being polite. When am I ever not polite?"

" _Niall!"_ the shaming effect she was likely aiming for falls flat when paired with the weakness in her voice, " _Please._ I know that you don't like Mr. Styles or Mr. Tomlinson, but—I just don't want you to offend—"

"Soph," Niall tweaks her nose, "I promise, I am the picture of kindness and charity to your Mr. Payne. In truth, it's nearly impossible to be anything else. I think I'd have an easier time trying to hold a grudge against a newborn baby." She scowls. "Don't fret, sis. I won't get in the way of your grand love story, I promise. Now get some sleep. Sooner you get better, sooner we can be back home, right?" he doesn't mention that his mother had instructed him to not leave with Sophia until he thought she and Mr. Payne were _suitably smitten._ Niall's certain that he could've figured that out without Sophia needing to put her health at risk.

Niall likes Liam more than he expected. Liam's kind and happy and almost _too_ good-natured. The kind of man where you'd feel guilty just _thinking_ about arguing with him. He's easy to talk to as well, always ready and willing to listen to Niall tell ridiculous or pointless stories without seeming the least annoyed by it. He'll eagerly play the captive audience, a stark contrast to the way Harry seems to lurk in the corners of the room, writing or reading, occasionally throwing looks Niall's way like Niall's interrupting his sanctuary.

If Niall gets a little louder with his stories, mimicking more voices and talking with his arms, there's simply nothing to be done about it.

She sighs, burrowing further into the bed, "Fine, fine. But I'll be able to sense if you do something wrong, you know."

"I know, I know. Twin senses," he leans down to kiss her forehead.

"Exactly. And put a jacket on, would you?" he sticks his tongue out at her but grabs his jacket, freshly laundered by one of Liam's servants, off the back of a chair on his way out of the room. The white walls of the hallway are still bare which makes them feel gigantic. Niall thinks he could stretch both arms out while running down the middle and touch nothing but air. When he reaches the foyer, he peers down over the balcony to see if anyone is watching. The first floor is empty and even though Niall's neck is tingling as if Sophia's glaring at him already, he jumps on the bannister and slides down to the bottom.

He leaps off just in time to avoid hitting the column at the end and is dusting off the seat of his pants—as if Liam's army of meticulous servants would've let a speck of dust accumulate on the wood—when he hears someone clear their throat, "Was that enjoyable?"

Niall looks up to see Harry standing in the doorway, adjusting one of his cuffs. He shrugs, running his hand through his hair, "More than. None of the staircases at Little Moreton are half as good as that one for sliding, especially now that I'm not 10 anymore and need a bit more room."

"You didn't stop to think about anyone seeing you?"

"I checked before I did it," Niall's truly not sure what to make of Harry. He'd written him off entirely as rude and prideful after the party and it's not exactly like that opinion's _changed_ since being here, but the way Harry looks at him sometimes is unsettling. The kind of gazes that burrow into his skin like barbs from a sticker bush, that he can't just shake off or ignore. It feels like Harry's wearing a permanent mask that Niall can't get past—not that he knows he really _wants_ to get past it. What would be the point in doing that? Harry seems thoroughly uninterested in trying to make friends with Niall in general. The world _tolerable_ circles his mind again, bitter on his tongue and leaving his voice sharper than it needs to be as he adds, "'s not like I could see through walls to know someone was coming either."

"Fair point," Harry replies, the corner of his too-wide mouth quirking up. Finding out that Harry has dimples—on the exceedingly rare occasion that he smiles—is one of Niall's least favorite discoveries at Gawsworth Hall. Dimples have always made him weak and Harry does not seem to be an exception to the rule. Niall turns and heads for what he thinks is the direction of the family parlor. He saw a chess board in there earlier and that should amuse him until dinner is served. Harry follows close behind him, like a lanky shadow making Niall hyperaware of the sound of his own footsteps. "Is your sister recovering?"

"Slowly, yes," Niall finds the parlor, nudging the door open. Unfortunately, Harry follows him in and makes himself comfortable at the opposite seat when Niall sits down in front of the chess board.

"You play?" he asks as Niall starts setting the board up.

Niall bites his tongue until the urge to make some _excessively_ rude comment passes, "Yes, I play. Usually with my younger sister. Why?"

Harry shrugs, scooting in on his chair, "You don't strike me as the type to play chess."

"Surprisingly, even a country heathen like myself can enjoy a good game of chess," he makes the first move, nudging a pawn up one.

"That's not what I meant," Harry replies evenly, "More that you don't seem…patient enough to enjoy chess."

"I'm not patient. My sister and I play quick," he'd hoped that Harry would get his point, but the other man still takes what seems like ages to move one pawn forward.

"It seems, Mr. Horan, that you don't much care what other people think of you."

"Mr. Horan is my father, thank you very much. I don't stand on that kind of ceremony, much as it annoys my mother and Soph. Niall's fine," he moves another pawn up.

"Niall, then," maybe that was a mistake because Niall was _not_ expecting the way his own name rolls off Harry's tongue, turning the two syllables into some sort of song Niall’s never heard before. He waits, almost expecting Harry to extend the same first name-basis courtesy to him the way Liam had, but of course it doesn't come. No doubt Harry would be scandalized at the thought of someone like _Niall_ being that forward with him. "My question still stands."

"Didn't ask a question, did you? You made a statement, _Mr. Styles."_

"Here's a question then: do you _enjoy_ arguing with people?" Niall seizes on that hint of irritation, the crack in Harry's seemingly impenetrable façade.

"It’s less than I enjoy it and more than I don’t see why I shouldn’t. Not going to keep my mouth shut if I disagree with something. And I know I can't stand the concept of agreeing with everyone all the time either," Harry moves one of his knights forward and Niall goes to take it but then pauses, thinking of his father teaching him to always double check on what looks like a perfect move. And he sees it, the way that Harry's bishop could take his pawn and put his queen in danger if he made the easy move, so he slides his rook forward instead.

Harry half-smiles again, the faintest hint of amusement like he wasn’t expecting Niall to notice that set up, "And _do_ you care what people think of you?"

"Only the people I care about.”

"That must not be many people, considering your…behavior.”

Niall glances up at Harry, trying to decipher the way he’s pursing his lips. "If someone were to judge me entirely on something silly like my clothes or sliding down a bannister _once,_ then I wouldn't care to know them at all. I'm not going to live my life just trying to please strangers who don't want to be pleased, people who set standards so absurdly high that nobody will reach them."

"There's nothing wrong with high standards, surely."

"Well then, what are yours? Considering you've acted as if everything and everyone in this town is beneath you since you stepped foot in Congleton," Niall pairs his words with the sweetest smile he can possibly muster.

It's thrilling, the sight of Harry getting caught off-guard. His cheeks flush pink and his jade eyes go wide for just a moment, as if he's trying to process the sheer audacity of Niall's question. He reaches up with one hand, tugging his full lower lip between two spindly fingers. Niall manages to tear his eyes away, not willing to let himself think too hard about the things Harry's hands or mouth would be capable of. It's not like any of them are possible, and Niall doesn't even _like_ Harry anyway. He’s mostly sure of that. "I prefer people who have more…intellectual matters to discuss rather than just local gossip. People who have a variety of hobbies to share so every interaction is not based on sitting around a drink and food. People who are accomplished in more than one or two skills, whose tastes vary past the simple and familiar. People who are pleasant to be around without becoming a burden or overbearing," Harry says as he takes Niall's rook. Niall had seen it coming and takes Harry's knight in response, "I simply believe that a place like this doesn't hold many people who fit that description compared to a place like London. But I’m simply…careful about my companions, which I hardly think is a crime."

"it’s not a crime,” Niall starts, “I'm just rather surprised you've met _anyone_ who fits that description, in Congleton or otherwise. I can't imagine trying to live up to all those rules."

"Are you so severe on yourself then, to think that's not an attainable goal?"

"Hardly. I'm sure I could manage it, given enough time and energy. But I know that if I was spending _all_ my time and energy towards making myself more agreeable to _one person_ , I'd lose my mind. What's the point in changing to make someone else like me if it just means I end up hating myself? Nobody, man or woman, is worth all that nonsense. Better to know who and what I am and be happy with that, I think," he chews on his nail, trying to figure out the next best move. He could take one of Harry's bishops—it would mean losing his other rook though, and he's not sure he wants to risk that so early in the game.

"And do you know who you are?" Harry asks, voice suddenly soft, and Niall finds himself looking back at the other man.

"I do," he says, hoping that his shrug comes off casual and not like the nervous distraction it actually is. He hates the way Harry gets under his skin, doesn't know whether it makes him want to run or lean in closer, "And the people I care about do too."

He's expecting some other prodding question, but Harry simply hums and takes Niall's knight. Damn, he hadn't been watching that pawn well enough. He's still debating his next move when Liam pokes his head into the room and tells them that dinner is about to served. He has the brief urge to go eat with Sophia instead, but she'd probably force him to come back down and _socialize_. He just doesn't want to be around _Harry_ anymore. It's almost as if he needs breathing time, space to right himself again after Harry so casually unsettled him. Without a chance to get it, though, he's left to stand, crack his back, and adjust his jacket to make sure the slight rumples from leaning over haven't stuck around. He doesn't say anything else to Harry as they walk to the dining room, but Harry doesn't seem to feel the need to speak either. Niall thinks it’s better that way.

///

"A Mrs. Horan, a Miss Horan, and a Miss Horan are here, sir," the butler says with an un-butler-ly level of distaste. Niall groans as quietly as he can, tilting his head back against the sofa. Ashlyn had written him yesterday to warn him that Maura was planning on visiting Gawsworth with Julia and Perrie, but he'd hoped that she'd change her mind. From the sound of giggling coming in through the open parlor door, Niall knows that his hopes have gone unanswered.

"Do show them in!" Liam says, oblivious to Niall's concern. The butler bows and disappears again. Niall sits up straighter, chewing on his nail and trying to prepare himself to control his family's tongues. If Liam were the only one home, he thinks that this would be a little easier as his mother is possibly even more eager to maintain Liam's good graces than Sophia is. But Harry and Louis are also here, both of whom his mother has no love for after they'd refused to dance with his sisters, and that combined with her inability to keep her thoughts to herself does not bode well. He glances over to see Harry watching him from his spot by the window, lanky body folded elegantly in an armchair. Niall stares back until Harry looks away first.

"The Horans, sir," the butler returns to show Niall's mother and youngest sisters into the room.

"Good day to you, Mr. Payne!" his mother trills, "I do hope that you don't mind our visit, but I've been ever so concerned about my daughter's health."

"Please, you and your family are welcome here! Would you like me to bring you to your daughter?" Liam asks as he stands up from his writing desk. Fearing the worst if Niall's family gets Liam alone for that long, Niall jumps to his feet.

"Allow me, Mr. Payne. I haven't seen my family in a few days, after all," he says with his best smile, "and I think I know the way by now."

"Oh yes, of course!" Liam doesn't seem to suspect anything, leaving Niall free to herd his family out of the parlor and towards the stairs.

His mother smacks the back of his head as soon as the door is shut behind him, "That was unnecessary, Niall, and quite rude. This is _Mr. Payne's_ home, not yours."

"I doubt he'll mind."

"I don't care whether he minds or not, it was _rude!_ And your appearance is rude as well! Hair unbrushed, no jacket on—I'm sure Mr. Payne thinks of you as entirely uncultured!" Niall hisses when he feels his mother's fan hit him again, harder this time.

He guides them up the main stairs, rubbing the back of his head, "If Mr. Payne thinks I'm uncultured, he certainly hasn't said it. He's been nothing but gracious and eager to spend time with me." If anything, Harry and Louis are the ones thinking Niall's uncultured. Niall's increasingly sure that Harry's constant stares are filled with internal criticism over Niall's general state of existence, counting all the ways Niall’s _behavior_ fails to meet those standards he'd gloated about having. He just can’t think of any other reason that Harry would stare at him so much. Wanting to distract his mother (and avoid a larger knot on his head), Niall adds, "He frequently asks me things about Sophia."

It works, as his mother's eyes light up with speculation, "Of course he does! It's obvious that he's infatuated with her. I knew this plan would work out brilliantly." Niall bites his tongue to prevent him from reminding his mother that Sophia's spent the entire week here dreadfully ill, which he wouldn’t classify as a “brilliant” result. They get to Sophia's room and he knocks quietly, waiting for her to invite them in. His sister is improving at least, the color returning to her cheeks and the strength coming back into her limbs. They'd agreed yesterday that they'd leave in two days if she continued to improve. Sophia was eager to no longer impose on Liam's generosity, Niall was eager to be free of Harry and Louis. It's not entirely fair to Louis, who seems to have warmed to Niall slightly, but Niall knows that his current hobby of arguing with Harry over random things until the older man is pink-cheeked and his mouth is twitching is only going to amuse him for so long.

He leans against the wall, watching as his mother talks to Sophia about Liam and gets increasingly annoyed when Sophia says that due to her illness, she hasn't seen Liam much. "I told you, Mama, he checks on me as often as is polite, but he can't stay in my room for long periods of time," Sophia repeats beseechingly, "It would be improper."

His mother huffs, waving her fan, "I had hoped that you would be a _little_ more enterprising than that! But no matter, you'll simply have to stay longer."

"Actually, Niall and I had discussed coming home tomorrow and—"

"Absolutely not! I will tell Mr. Payne that you're far too ill to travel. I don't want you leaving this house until we can be assured of his preference for you," Sophia glances past their mother to Niall, who mouths out " _tomorrow, I promise"_ at her.

"I don't want to wear out my welcome, Mama, that's all," Sophia says quietly.

"Pish, you've only been here for a week. This many rooms in the house, I'm sure you're not taking up any space he'd be using for something else. And Niall insists on sleeping in the attic at home, so he can sleep wherever if Mr. Payne needs _his_ room," Niall rolls his eyes, glancing out the window. He'd hoped to go on a walk today, enjoy the sunshine and good weather, but he's not leaving until his mother and sisters have gone.

"Please, Mama, don't insist on it—"

"We'll stay as long as we can, Mama," Niall interjects, crossing his arms.

Maura scowls at him, wagging her finger, "I won't let you cross me on this, Niall! Since _you_ insist on being unmarried and putting the wellbeing of our family at risk, it's my _duty_ to make up for your failings with the rest of your siblings." Niall bites his tongue until he tastes blood. Perrie's snorting into her hand, a poor attempt at covering the sound up.

"If Niall weren’t here, Mama, I'd be so much more nervous. He's been so good with Mr. Payne; Mr. Payne mentions it whenever he talks to me," Sophia sits up a little more, tucking her hair behind her ear. Their mother sniffs, arms crossing over her chest.

"It's the _least_ he could do, I suppose," Niall rolls his eyes again but continues to chew on his tongue.

Eventually, they head back down to parlor, Maura steadfastly proclaiming her need to make sure that things have progressed to her liking. Niall likes none of it, worried that his mother is going to push things way too much. He's not sure if Liam's tolerance has a limit but he doesn't want to find out. "Ah, Mrs. Horan! I trust you found your daughter improving?" Liam asks as they file in, Niall at the end of the group.

Maura sighs, more dramatic than the world's worst actor, "Unfortunately, she is still quite unwell, _far_ too unwell to travel now. I'm afraid that we must intrude on your kindness for a little longer." Niall takes advantage of the fact that his mother isn't facing him to shake his head, fingers pressed to his temple. He looks up to see Harry staring at him again, green eyes narrowed from over the top of his book.

"Not a problem. I would hate for Miss Horan to be moved before her health has fully returned," Niall really hopes that Liam doesn't gamble much, because he's not sure that Liam could ever tell when he was being utterly swindled.

"You are too kind, sir! Truly, Sophia has always borne trials well. She's ever so patient, the most gracious child to have ever existed."

"While the circumstances are obviously not ideal, it's been a pleasure having both Miss Horan _and_ Mr. Horan as house guests this week. I'm so happy to have made such good friends so early into my stay in Congleton," Niall returns the smile Liam sends his way.

"Yes, yes, I'm glad that my son's managed to make himself useful here at least. I hope he hasn't spent the whole time lounging about like he does at home," Niall forces himself to keep smiling, his cheeks burning with the effort. He doesn’t actually get to _lounge about_ at home nearly as much as he’d like to when he and Sophia are trying to make sure that nothing’s falling apart. 

"Not at all!" Liam says with a confused frown, "He's been excellent company. He’s taken us on multiple tours of the town and surrounding area, which has helped me feel quite at home here."

Apparently satisfied, his mother settles in more on the sofa, "Good, good."

Perrie must hit her limit of bouncing anxiously in silence, as she blurts out, "Mr. Payne, do you recall that you promised to hold a ball here at Gawsworth to celebrate your arrival? I do hope that you're going to be true to your word! It would make you exceedingly popular in town!" Julia nods along eagerly, always eager to follow in Perrie's footsteps despite being older. Niall sighs, chewing on his nail again. He'd hoped that Liam had forgotten about that promise he'd apparently made at the assembly hall. From across the room, he sees Harry's nose wrinkle and wonders if he's not the only one wishing this ball wouldn't happen.

"I remember it well! As soon as your sister is recovered, you shall name the date for a ball," Perrie and Julia squeal, feet tapping on the wood floor faster than the world’s best drummer could ever hope to beat.

"You're _so_ generous, Mr. Payne! I confess that I had feared you would decide against a ball, as I know that _some_ people seem to disdain the good folk of Congleton, won't dance with the ladies, and I'm so glad to know that you refuse to be influenced by that _sort_ of person."

"Mama!" Niall hisses, watching Harry's eyebrows rise up his forehead. Subtlety and Maura Horan are strangers on the opposite ends of the earth most days, but this is _particularly_ not the time for it.

But his mother's barreling on, voice purposely airy, "You know, I've found that Congleton is _very_ welcoming to newcomers. Our family was accepted quickly, you know, despite coming all the way from Ireland and not knowing anybody. In truth, I think that _people_ who are so eager to look down on our little town are the ones worthy of disdain."

" _Mama,"_ Niall repeats, louder this time.

"Shush, Niall, I'm not talking to you," his mother says like he's a bloody toddler.

He grits his teeth, squares his shoulders, and tries to picture Sophia's face to keep his tone civil. There's no way to be vague in telling her to shut her mouth before she offends Liam by offending Harry, so he uses the second-best option and switches to Irish, "Mr. Payne's not going to be very happy if you continue offending his friends like that."

She scoffs at him, replying in Irish too, "Don't be silly, Niall, he doesn't _know_ who I'm talking about."

"His friend _does,"_ Niall says firmly, glancing over at Harry for the briefest second. Harry's watching him again, the corner of his wide mouth curved up just slightly.

His mother humphs, turning her back to Niall again, "My apologies for that, Mr. Payne. My son is quite _opinionated_ sometimes and forgets that it's _impolite_ to speak in another language in front of company. What matters is how excited _all_ of Congleton will be when you decide to hold the ball!" That's enough to send Julia and Perrie chattering again about guests, how Liam _must_ invite the militia staying in town to pad out the numbers for the men and women. Niall resorts to staring out the window at the sunny day he wishes that he were enjoying and tearing little strips of skin off his fingers by his nails.

///

"Are you _sure?"_ if Liam Payne asks that one more time, Niall's going to—do something. Go lock the man in his own house, maybe.

"I am, sir. I truly cannot tell you how grateful I am. It was never my intention to intrude on your house for so long and you have been a more than gracious host to my brother and me. We're both in your debt," Sophia says, her voice finally back to normal. She was peaky this morning, but when Niall had floated the idea of staying another day, she'd thrown a pillow at his head that nearly knocked him to the ground and told him to help her pack her things.

"Please, Miss Horan, it's been no trouble at all. We've been happy to host both of you," Niall tilts his head towards Liam in his own gesture of thanks. If this were another situation, he'd be a little more forceful in trying to get a move on, but he can’t quite bring himself to do it just yet even though he’s itching to be on their way _._ Liam hasn't let go of Sophia's hand since he'd kissed her knuckles roughly ten minutes ago and his sister won’t stop smiling and that’s enough to stretch his store of patience just a little further. 

"Eager to get home?" Harry asks, jolting Niall out of his thoughts on Liam's worthiness as a potential brother-in-law. He looks up at Harry, who's tall enough to block the sun from hitting Niall's face. The light does rather unfair things to his long curls, highlighting the soft strands until Niall's fingers burn with the urge to _touch._ Harry'd probably cut his hand off for daring, though, so he digs his nails into his palms instead and uses the pain to remind himself that Harry will likely want nothing to do with him after Niall leaves and they’re no longer stuck in the same house.

He shrugs, "I just don't like feeling like I'm imposing on someone for this long."

"I don't think Liam would call it an imposition," Harry's gaze at Sophia and Liam is less fond in a way that makes Niall's jaw clench, "But I would caution your sister to not ride such a far distance in the rain in the future."

"Sophia didn’t want to do that," Niall hisses, "And I did want her to do it either. Our mother—"

"Your mother?" Harry presses when Niall cuts himself off.

"Never mind," Niall doesn't really want to make his mother's thoughtless actions any more obvious, "It won't happen again." He doesn't like the look Harry gives him. Well, he doesn't really _ever_ like the looks Harry gives him, but this one he likes the _least._ It's calculating in the worst way, making Niall feel small and wholly inadequate. He tears his gaze away from Harry's face to look back at his sister, who's nodding eagerly as Liam talks to her about the ball he'd promised their sisters. "Been a while since someone held a ball here," he muses, nose wrinkling as he tries to remember it.

"Is that so?" Harry asks distantly, playing with one of the silver rings on his fingers.

Niall nods, leaning against the carriage that Liam insisted on them taking back to Little Moreton, "At least a decade ago, I think. It was a winter ball, and I spent most of it getting into a snowball fight in the courtyard and teaching my best friend how to curse in Irish."

"I'm surprised you're so fluent. Didn't you move here as a child?"

"Sophia and I are really the only ones that can still speak it other than our parents. Our father made sure to keep teaching us even after we'd moved, said we should keep our heritage alive. Ashlyn knows a little, I reckon, learning it from me but I don't think Julia and Perrie know any," their accents are the weakest too. He feels bad for them sometimes—Ashlyn doesn't have _many_ memories of Ireland, because she was barely 4 when they moved, but she remembers some things. Julia and Perrie don't remember anything at all from their homeland. The only person Niall can really reminisce with about home these days is Sophia.

"Do you speak any other languages?" Liam's kissing the back of Sophia's hand again and Sophia's cheeks are redder than fresh cherries.

"No. Don't have much of a need to know anything else, since Congleton's such a small place and all. We don’t see many foreign travelers coming through here. But I have no doubt that you're more talented in that respect," he toes at the ground, dragging his boot through the fine gravel.

"What makes you think that?"

"Educated rich man like you, always spending time in the city on business? I'd be a fool to think you speak any less than three languages."

Harry's mouth twists, almost like he's fighting a smile, "I speak four, actually. Five, if you count Latin."

Niall whistles, "Sounds like you've got quite the talented mouth then, don’t you?" Harry's still sputtering by the time Liam reluctantly lets Sophia's hand go and bows to her. "Ready, Soph?" Niall calls, fighting to keep his face straight. Sophia nods, adjusting her bonnet. Liam watches her walk away like the saddest child in the world. Niall could almost swear that he's _pouting_ and has half an urge to ask Liam to just get it over with and propose here and now. But then Sophia's next to him and Niall's helping her up into the carriage, making sure she's settled before he climbs in behind her. Sophia waves out the window as the carriage rumbles forward, wheels sputtering for a moment on the gravel drive.

"Not to sound ungrateful, because it was _more_ than kind for Mr. Payne to house us for that long without notice, but I am looking forward to being home again. Mr. Payne's house is so… _quiet_ compared to ours. Almost too quiet," Sophia says, settling back onto the bench seat. Niall kicks his feet up next to her, ignoring the exasperated look she gives him.

"Meanwhile, I slept like an angel because it was so quiet," he stretches his arms out over the back of his seat, drumming his fingers against the wall, "But I'm excited to be home again too. I can be myself again, not have to worry about Mr. Payne's _friends_ giving me funny looks."

"You can't blame them, Nialler. Their standards are different."

"Don't have to tell me twice," Harry's absurd list of requirements for his friendship have engraved themselves on the inside of Niall’s skull. No wonder Harry seems so miserable all the time if all his friends are boring sods spending all their time on being _worldly_ rather than _living_. Niall wonders if he ever goes out to a tavern or something with friends, drinks a few pints, and just _relaxes._ He'd probably be a lot happier if he did, maybe even smile more than once a day. God knows Niall's looking forward to a night out now that he's free from being Sophia's decency check. "So, how in love with Mr. Payne are you? We'll say the scale starts at desperately and ends at completely."

Sophia punches his thigh hard enough to make him swear, voice ringing in the carriage. He takes that as an answer.


	2. I'm out of my head and I know that you're scared because hearts get broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Niall meets a new friend, which Harry does not care about whatsoever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from Harry Styles' Golden.

"Niall, I _told_ you to comb your hair this morning!" his mother hisses, reaching up to try and flatten his hair down (with no success), "And you, Ashlyn! Nose out of your book for once in your life!" Ashlyn jumps, holding her book behind her back. Niall waits until their mother has returned to the other end of their family presentation line before leaning over to kiss Ashlyn's cheek. It's hot outside, summer sun beating down on them with only the wispiest of clouds to stop it, and Niall just hopes that their guest arrives soon so they don’t have to keep standing out here forever.

Greg Collins is some distant relation to them, though Niall's never really known the exact type. He knows that Greg would've inherited Little Moreton if not for that solicitor discovering his father's existence and is still theoretically in line to inherit it if something catastrophic happens to Niall. Maybe that's why he insists on visiting every other year, like a sour eclipse blocking out all the fun at Little Moreton, just to see what he could've had. And they perform this ritual of pretending that they can stand him and he can stand them over and over again. Greg is proud, haughty, and painfully self-absorbed with an uncanny ability to suck the enjoyment out of every situation.

When the carriage rumbles up the drive, kicking dust and pebbles behind the wheels, Julia is the first to gasp, "Look, there's someone with him!"

Niall squints, "Looks like a woman, unless Greg's found a man who enjoys a rather frilly bonnet.”

"Maybe he's finally gotten married then?" Sophia offers, sounding more than a little hopeful. Greg had hinted during his last visit that he wouldn't be opposed to marrying Sophia, a concept that Niall thinks only pleased his mother. Niall had promised Sophia that he wouldn't let her marry Greg if it were the last thing he ever did.

"God willing," maybe a marriage would get him out of their hair for a while too. Niall stifles a yawn in the back of his hand and fights the urge to chew on his nail as the carriage rolls to a stop in front of them.

Greg hops down from the carriage, sweeping his top hat off his head, "Hello, hello, dear friends!" He helps the passenger down as well, a short stick of a girl in a canary yellow dress that matches her bonnet.

"Always a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Collins," Niall's mother trills, the only member of the entire Horan family to find any part of this pleasurable.

"You are too kind as always," Greg gives compliments like someone deigning to give a half-penny to a beggar, all false smiles and an air as though he's simply waiting for onlookers to applaud him for his kindness. "I hope you don't mind that I brought a guest. This is my ward, Miss Steinfeld. I thought that it would be good for her to see this lovely little town."

And Little Moreton, Niall's sure. Miss Steinfeld curtsies, dark almond eyes flickering from face to face and lingering on Niall. "Thank you for welcoming me to your home," she says, voice a little lower than Niall would expect from someone her size. He'd be surprised if she were more than five feet tall or was older than 18.

He leans over to Sophia, "So much for him being married."

She threads her fingers through his and squeezes so tight that Niall bites back a swear, "If you leave me alone with him even for a moment, I will destroy everything you hold dear, Niall. You’ll find your fiddle in the fire as kindling."

"Noted."

Dinner is an _ordeal._ Greg, eager to preen about his new position of rector in the town where he lives, delivers what Niall swears is the longest grace he's ever had to sit through. His father is the one that eventually breaks in, cutting Greg off halfway through a bit about the importance of a happy and peaceful home to say, "Your words are wise as always, Mr. Collins, but this home only stays peaceful when we eat while the food is hot. So, _amen."_ Niall mutters out an amen as he reaches for the plate of roasted ham.

He's got Ashlyn on one side of him and Greg's ward on the other. So far, Miss Steinfeld's barely said ten words to him and he's starting to think that she's one of those women who think the only way to live life is act like a porcelain doll on puppet strings, perpetually silent and doe eyed. She's young too, though he's still not sure _how_ young yet. "How did you end up with your ward, Mr. Collins?" Maura asks from her end of the table.

"Well," Greg starts with a pointed _ahem_ that makes Niall fear for his own sanity, "the benefactor of our parish, Lord Cowell, entrusted her to me after she sadly lost her parents." Niall's seen houseplants convey sympathy more genuinely than Greg, but Miss Steinfeld doesn't seem to notice. "I was so honored by his consideration for me and his high regard for my strength and leadership, as Lord Cowell is truly one of the most discerning men in _all_ of England, that I agreed without hesitation. Miss Steinfeld is my charge until she marries, and I am following Lord Cowell's advice in _all_ matters regarding her. Lord Cowell has only one daughter, but she is a paragon of womanhood and an excellent example for Miss Steinfeld to look up to," Miss Steinfeld stays impassive, taking the bowl of green beans Niall hands her with only the slightest nod. If this is her following someone else's example, Niall would hate to see her teacher.

"Do you see Lord Cowell often?" Sophia asks politely, her fake smile plastered to her face. Their mother had insisted that she sit next to Greg and do her best to charm him. Niall had pointed out that Sophia's still busy charming Mr. Payne and had been brushed off with a "the more options, the merrier!" Sophia’s about as enthused about the idea as Niall is but, as usual, she's far better at hiding it.

"Frequently! Lord Cowell is so charitable and gracious. We are invited to his home at Lyme Park, one of the _grandest_ estates in all of Cheshire, certainly, on a regular basis. In fact, Lyme Park is separated from my cottage by a mere _lane."_

"A _lane!"_ Niall says as if he's never heard of such a thing, "Did you hear that, Soph? Separated by a mere _lane!"_ Sophia's mouth goes tight, her nose wrinkling as she fights off the smile he can see dancing in her eyes. Greg's nodding, continuing to wax on about the proximity of this _lane._ Niall hands a plate of steaming rolls to Miss Steinfeld and realizes that she's just barely smiling. Maybe she's not quite as dull as she lets on.

///

"Finally, Horan. You're late," Holly says as Niall jogs up to her, having finally disentangled himself from the knot that is his sisters, Greg, and Miss Steinfeld. She's sitting on a bench outside the bakery, a paper bag nestled next to her and her bonnet tilted back a little more than usual.

"Sorry, sorry. Our cousin Collins is here again. It took me ages to get him off my back, not to mention my sisters," Holly hums, holding out a fresh scone. Niall takes it gratefully, biting into the soft pastry and groaning when the icing melts on his tongue.

"He aiming to snare Soph again?"

"No, thank god. Mama was finally useful for once and told him that Sophia's soon to be engaged to Mr. Payne—which isn't really set in stone, you know, but it's done enough to deter the bastard from pursuing her more. No clue what he'll do next," Niall doesn’t really want to find out either. He wants to get through this damned visit without something catastrophic happening and send Greg packing back to his parish and his _esteemed Lord Cowell._ "Telling you, Holls, he won't shut _up_ about this benefactor of whatever town they've put him in. Every other word out of his mouth is _Lord Cowell says this_ and _Lord Cowell thinks that._ Don't even know who the hell Lord Cowell _is,_ but I'm dead tired of hearing his name."

Holly winces, "That sounds rather obnoxious."

"It is. Between him and my sisters all up in arms over this bloody ball at Gawsworth, I'm about to tear my hair out," he licks a stray crumb off the corner of his lips, watching as a red-coated herd of militiamen wander through the town square. Perrie and Julia will likely be out here any minute, pink-cheeked and giggling over the men as is their main hobby. He doubts that Greg could conjure up a scowl disapproving enough to stop them in their permanent pursuing of soldiers.

"And since the ball's being held in your sisters' collective honor, you can't even beg out of it," Holly teases, knowing Niall's dislike for fancy events like this one is bound to be, "Whatever shall you do?" Niall grunts around another bite of scone. If he has to suffer through one more discussion comparing different ribbon patterns like it's a matter of national fucking importance, he's going to hang himself with the lot of them. Buy out Mrs. Watson's entire stock of ribbons and make the prettiest noose the world's ever seen.

"Suffer through it in the hope that Sophia has a ring on her finger from Mr. Payne sooner rather than later, I suppose," he brushes the crumbs off his fingers, "You are coming, right? Please say you are."

Holly pats his arm, "Of course I am. Do you really think I'd abandon you?"

Niall pretends to think it over and gets a smack to his arm for the silence, "Joking, joking. I know you wouldn't. I just have a feeling that I'm going to be spending far too much time trying to keep my family in line since Sophia will probably be distracted with Mr. Payne." Niall leans back against the brick wall, kicking his feet out, "And I think Greg's coming, so I might need to use you as a distraction from _him."_

"I would think that, since the only other man in your household is your father who's always in his study hiding from your mother, you'd be a little more grateful for male companionship in the house."

"I would be, if Greg wasn't the most insufferable man I've ever met."

"More insufferable than your great enemy _Mr. Styles?"_

Niall frowns, "Wouldn't say he's my _great enemy._ Also, yes, because at least Mr. Styles knows when to keep his mouth shut." He's also much nicer to look at. Not that Niall thinks that matters. The look Holly gives him drips with doubt and he'd almost grateful when he hears Perrie calling his name from across the street. "Come on, you're not abandoning me now either," he mutters, pulling Holly to her feet and letting her take his arm as they make their way over to the small group of his sisters and militiamen.

Perrie's still bouncing on her feet as he approaches, "Finally! This is my brother, Niall!"

Niall recognizes two of the men, Alexander and Joshua, but the third man is new. He's also _quite_ handsome, with olive skin and deep brown eyes almost as dark as the shock of black hair pulled back into a low ponytail. "Niall Horan," he says, extending his hand to the man.

"Zayn Malik," his voice is soft, words thick like treacle, "Your sisters were just talking about you and I wanted to make your acquaintance." Niall feels his face warm; Zayn's as attractive as Harry is but he's not looking at Niall like he's some sort of country simpleton. It's a distinct positive.

"Are you new here? I’ve never seen you around before and I’d remember your face,” luckily, Holly slips into conversation with Sophia, giving Niall the chance to step a little closer to Zayn. It’s so much easier to flirt without an active audience.

Zayn nods, "I just joined the militia earlier this year thanks to a recommendation from Joshua. I confess, I'm not much for fighting, so I'm hoping that it will be a peaceful time once we make it to Hull." Niall believes it, thinks Zayn is too gentle for any kind of conflict. "Judging by your accent, I'm going to presume you're from Ireland?"

"Moved here with my family when I was a child. I've lived here ever since, but I still miss it. I think Ireland's always going to be home for me in a way."

"I also moved here when I was a child, and I quite agree. No matter how long you stay somewhere, home never changes," Zayn's smile is all soft charm, leaving Niall's stomach fluttering in its wake, "The accent suits you, by the way."

"Does it?" he likes the way Zayn's thick eyelashes flutter as he grins, "Well, thanks. My mother always thought it would make us sound crude compared to everyone else here."

"I don’t find it crude at all. Then again, I suppose it would depend on what you’re saying," Zayn tells him with a wink that leaves Niall breathless. The man's so bloody _pretty_ that Niall almost wants to pinch himself and make sure he's not dreaming.

"Soph! Sophia, look! It's Mr. Payne!" Julia hisses (remarkably quiet for her standards), seizing Sophia's arm and pointing down the street. Liam's riding into town, Harry next to him looking stately as ever, back like a metal bar and face blank. In comparison, the smile still gracing Zayn's lightly stubbled face makes him seem so much younger and warmer. Sophia glances at Niall, familiar eyes asking for reassurance, and he nods back at her.

"The two of you are twins, yes? That's what your sister said." Niall hums but doesn't take his eyes off his sister, watching the way her hands are nervously knotted behind her back as she stops in front of Liam.

"I'm a whole three minutes ahead of Sophia." The fact that Sophia went over there on her own is enough to make him both proud of her for combating her shyness and giddy over the fact that she's _truly_ smitten. He'll make his way over in a minute, suffer through more of Harry's stares if he must just to make sure that everything's alright, but he's not quite ready to walk away from Zayn. He's about to offer to introduce Zayn when Harry glances over at them. Even at this distance, Niall sees the way he goes stiff, eyes narrowing into the iciest glare Niall's ever seen. He hears Zayn hiss at his side and glances over, "Do you know Ha—Mr. Styles?"

"Unfortunately, we are well acquainted," Zayn says, fiddling with the cuffs of his red militia uniform, "At one point, I considered him like a brother. But he—" Niall's breath is stuck in his chest, waiting eagerly for Zayn to continue. Instead, the dark-haired man shakes his head, "Forgive me, I shouldn't speak of it in public like this."

"Perhaps you could tell me later?" Niall offers because he's _desperate_ to hear whatever story this is. And also to maybe be alone with Zayn and his dark eyes and soft voice.

Zayn shoots him a grateful smile, angelic as it stretches across his lips, "I would. You seem like a trustworthy man, Mr. Horan." Niall's blush is nothing compared to the fire in his cheeks when Zayn takes his hand and kisses the back of it without looking away. "Perhaps we could spend some time together tomorrow? I'm sure you could show me around," there's no way Niall could ever say no, not when Zayn looks so hopeful.

"I would be happy to. But—will anything be awkward between you and Mr. Styles? I don't know when he plans to leave Congleton, though it can't be soon enough for me," he adds, dropping his voice as if Harry could hear them from across the busy street. Harry looks like he's about to scream, fists clenched white knuckled at his sides and eyes blazing. It’s more emotion that Niall thinks he’s ever seen from the man.

Zayn's expression sharpens along with his voice, "No, no, if _Mr. Styles_ has a problem with me, he shall be the one who must leave. He's kicked me out of places far too many times and—well, I don't think _I_ want to leave Congleton anytime soon now." Niall's not too manly to admit to his slight swoon, especially when Zayn kisses the back of his hand again. It's more romantic of a gesture than Niall's _ever_ gotten in public. He can feel Holly's stunned stare from his right, Harry's fiery glare to his left, but he can only see Zayn. His heart thumps in his chest, especially when Zayn gently fixes a wrinkle in the collar of Niall's shirt, his knuckles brushing lightly against Niall's throat. "Tomorrow then?" Niall nods, gone mute, and Zayn winks one more time before walking off to join Alexander and Joshua again.

"Well, well, _well,"_ Holly says smugly at his side, "Seems the Horan twins have _both_ been bitten by the smitten bug, hmm?"

Niall swallows, glancing from his best friend's knowing face back to where Harry was standing. But the other man is already on his horse again, galloping out of town without looking back.

///

Harry's not upset about it. He's really not.

And if he _is_ upset, it's only due to seeing Zayn again in person after all these years of believing that he'd never have to look at the bastard ever again.

Niall is nothing more than an acquaintance. Harry _doesn't_ care about the fact that Niall was blushing, almost visibly swooning over Zayn's (undoubtedly false) niceties in a way that he's never swooned for Harry. Not that Harry’s ever _wanted_ Niall to swoon over him. The acid burning in his stomach has _nothing_ to do with the fact that Zayn kissed Niall's hand _twice_ and then fixed his collar so _tenderly_ and Niall let him do it when Harry’s always felt certain that he’d get punched if he ever dared to touch the younger man. But Niall let _Zayn_ touch him and his cheeks were so red and his smile was almost sheepish aimed towards a man that deserves _nothing. Especially_ not from _Niall._

No, Harry’s not upset about it at all.

///

Niall dresses up more than he has in a while for his meeting with Zayn. He spends far too much time looking at his reflection in the mirror, trying to get his hair to that nebulous state of looking effortlessly casual but perfectly in place. He wonders how men like Harry do it, tame something that should be wild until it looks perfect, and then wrinkles his nose. He doesn't _want_ to think of Harry right now, not when he's about to meet a man who, despite being a stranger, didn't immediately look down on him.

He's grateful to see that Zayn's already in their agreed upon spot in the park on the edge of town, lounging underneath a tree and still looking far too beautiful for Niall's heart to take. He's not used to feeling like this, all flutters inside. Harry makes his skin prickle but— _no._ He’s _not_ going think about Harry because Harry doesn’t _matter._ "It's good to see you again, Mr. Horan," Zayn says as Niall walks up.

"Please, Niall is fine. And it's good to see you too," Niall hopes that the way he looks Zayn over, his lean body making art out of his casual attire, isn’t _too_ obvious. It can be a _little_ obvious though. He hasn’t had a good fun romp with anyone in a while and Zayn would _certainly_ be a good partner for that.

"Niall it is" Zayn says with another grin, "And you must call me Zayn." Niall rather likes the way Zayn says his name. Zayn slowly sits down, propping one arm up on his knee, and Niall sits next to him perhaps a little too close for propriety's sake. There's nobody to judge him for it though and Zayn doesn't make any motion to put space between them. Niall notices grey smudges on the side of Zayn's hand and dares to reach out to touch, drag his fingers across the spot, "Ah, my apologies. Charcoal is always messier than I remember."

"Are you an artist?"

"One of my favorite hobbies. I find myself most at piece when I'm creating something. It's been that way ever since I was a child," Niall loves the thought of that. A younger version of Zayn, even more cherubic than the man sitting beside him, carefully redrawing a landscape or portrait with all the determined concentration of a child. "I believe you wanted to know of my history with Mr. Styles?" Niall's sure that it would be the polite thing to do to pretend as if he'd completely forgotten about it, but it would be a lie. He's spent most of the day trying to guess at what atrocity Harry committed before coming to Congleton. With how much of a mystery Harry is, the possibilities had seemed quite endless. "It is an unhappy story," Zayn warns.

"Only tell me if you want to," Niall says, "I don't know the man well but what little I know of him doesn't exactly recommend him as trustworthy or friendly, so you don’t need to worry about offending me on his behalf." Harry does a good enough job of offending Niall on his own.

"You're right to distrust him. Ever since we were children, Harry's been able to charm everyone around him into believing him faultless in every situation," Zayn gets to his feet and begins to pace slowly in front of the tree, "I was born in France. My father was a trader from the Ottoman Empire who had many business ties across Europe. Mr. Styles' father was one of those connections, possibly the closest one. As my father's only son, I traveled with him frequently and stayed with him at the Styles' house in Holmes Chapel too many times to count. I considered Harry to be my closest friend. We ran wild through the house, playing with all the abandon of carefree young boys and I felt like I wanted for nothing. When my father gave me the option of staying with the Styles rather than continuing to travel back and forth with him, I eagerly took it. I had been wanting to stay somewhere permanently for a few years at that point and I thought it made perfect sense to do so with what I thought to be my second family.

"Harry and I got even closer as we grew older. When my father died, he comforted me for hours. He was like a brother to me, Niall. I never would've expected him to betray me the way he did." Niall swallows, watching as Zayn stares mournfully out at the horizon. It’s taking everything in him to remain calm and let Zayn continue at his own pace. The urge to speed the other man along is _unbelievably_ strong in the back of his head. "My father had left me a fair amount of money in his will. I had always wanted to be an artist and my deepest desire was to go to London and try to make a career out of my art. Harry and his father both supported me in this, and I left with a heavy heart but high hopes. As I'm sure you could guess, the life of an artist is far from easy, but I did my best to manage it. I expected to hear from Harry frequently, but he rarely wrote to me and never visited either. I'm not entirely sure what happened to him in the years I was away but when I returned home after his father had passed, he was not the boy whose friendship I'd cherished so much.

"His father had included me in his will. Harry and I argued over what I had been left, a row like we'd never had before. I think we would’ve come to blows if his mother hadn’t broken things up. I had not expected to have to dispute the will so fiercely with people I'd thought of as family. When it was sorted out and I had what I deserved, Harry threw me out of the home, _my home,_ and told me not to return. Still, I did come back nearly six months later out of necessity and the hope that I could mend the relationship, but it was not to be. He had turned his mother and sister both against me, along with his new stepfather. After that, I left for the continent, spent some time visiting with my mother and sisters, and now I’ve returned to find that he's spent all that time since cultivating a pretense of charity and kindness to hide his greed and callousness. If it weren’t for my lasting respect for his father, who never could've known what his son was capable of, I would have called him out by now," Zayn sighs, running his hand through his dark hair, "And that is the whole sorry tale of it."

Niall takes in the slump to Zayn's shoulders, the sorrow in his eyes, and beats back the urge to stomp straight over to Gawsworth and call Harry out _for_ Zayn. "I—hell, I'm so sorry. That's despicable, truly." Even with his mouth downturned and the solemn look in his eyes, Zayn still manages to look like an angel. "And he's fooled so many!" Niall adds, getting to his feet as well, "I wonder if Liam and Louis know."

"I assure you, they both do. We all used to be close. But Louis played a part in it, you know. He angled to get what Harry's father had left me. He's a proud, grasping man, just like Harry," that makes sense, seeing as Louis is just as haughty as Harry, but Liam knowing of it and continuing to associate with them both is shocking. Niall had thought Liam incapable of approving of behavior like that, let alone potentially participating in it. He wonders if Sophia's heard anything or if she would be able to find out. He's not sure that he can give his approval to a match between Sophia and Liam until he knows the truth.

"That's despicable, all of it," he spits, reaching out to squeeze Zayn's shoulder, "You're a good man, Zayn, to refrain from calling him out. A better man than I’d be if I were in your place."

"It is hard, but I'm trying to take the higher ground even when he's set the bar so low. I am glad that you understand though. I appreciate it," he curls his charcoal-stained fingers around Niall's wrist tenderly. Niall wonders if his pulse racing is noticeable.

He clears his throat, "I—Liam is throwing a ball next week. You should come."

"I don't know," Zayn says slowly, looking away over the park, "I shouldn't wish to cause any trouble, and I wasn't invited. Probably at Harry's insistence."

"Well, I'm inviting you and the ball is basically being held in my sisters' honor. If any of them have a problem, they can sit on a tack for all I care," he'd almost love to cause that scene. Find some other way that he can get under Harry's skin, reveal him to everyone in Congleton for what he _truly_ is.

Zayn blushes, trailing his hand up Niall's arm, "I shall think on it. It—I would enjoy spending more time with you, Niall."

"A-and I with you," he's glad that his voice only wobbles the once when Zayn's smoldering gaze is focused so heavily on him, "If you come, I'll save you a dance. I'm a terrible dancer, just to warn you, but I'd make a fool of myself with you anyway."

Zayn's hand pushes up to his jaw, stroking his thumb across Niall's cheek, "I would be honored, Niall." Niall's breath catches when Zayn leans in, pressing his warm lips to the corner of Niall's mouth. It's a tease of what a kiss could be but they're not exactly in private. "I have to go meet Joshua and Alex for lunch, but I hope I shall see you soon," Zayn's voice is even smoother this close, especially when he presses a second half-kiss to the skin just below Niall's ear.

"Me too," he whispers. Zayn cuts nearly as impressive of a figure as he walks away and Niall stays where he is for a while, trying to regain his composure. Zayn's left something burning inside him, a mixture of lust and maybe disbelief that someone so stunning would ever give Niall the time of day. Sophia had come into town with him to have lunch with Danielle and pick up the dresses for her and their sisters from Mrs. Watson's, so he makes his way out of the park to find her. She's standing outside the tavern, a pile of wrapped satchels at her feet.

"There you are," she says as he jogs over to her, hoping that it will provide a cover in case he's still a little flushed, "How was your time with Mr. Malik?”

"I'll tell you about it on our morning walk tomorrow," he says, bending over to pick up the packages, "I want your opinion anyway."

Sophia raises her eyebrow but nods, tightening the bow of her bonnet. She pauses, head tilting, "You've got a smudge on your cheek, Nialler."

"Oh! It must be, um, charcoal. Zayn's an artist," Sophia merely rolls her eyes and starts walking down the road to home.

///

"I don't know," Sophia says, the wrinkle in her brow deepening.

"What's _not_ to know?" it's an unusually brisk morning for the summer, a chill in the wind that's leaving their noses red, "Mr. Styles is a coward in a cravat."

"It certainly doesn't paint him in a positive light," Sophia starts, "but—I don't know, Nialler, something about that story doesn't feel like it's adding up."

"You're too used to seeing the good in people, Soph, that's all."

She levels him with a flat stare, "And you're _far_ too eager to find more reasons to hate Mr. Styles."

"That's not true!" he protests but her expression only hardens more, "It's _mostly_ not true!"

Still less than impressed, she slips her arm out of his to hop over the stone fence separating the field from the dirt road back into town, "I'm not saying that it _couldn't_ be true, just that you're only hearing one side of the story and you should be cautious. I know you don't like Mr. Styles, but perhaps you should bring it up to him and ask about it?"

Niall scoffs, following her over the fence, "As if he'd deign to talk about it with _me."_ He can picture the scowl on Harry's face, marring the beauty of it as he coldly told Niall to mind his own business. He knows that Sophia is being practical as usual, but it's so hard for him to believe that Zayn could be lying about any of it. He was so open in telling a story that was obviously painful to him. Harry's so closed off in contrast, where every conversation they'd had (few as they were) felt like pulling teeth. And with how snobby Harry is, with his high standards and critical stares, it's easy to believe that he could shut Zayn out without a hint of remorse.

"I just can't believe that Mr. Payne would continue to associate with someone capable of being that cruel," Sophia finally says once they're walking again, “And it makes me doubt things just a little.”

"I thought the same thing," Niall admits, “Maybe _you_ could ask him about that? He's more likely to talk to you about it than Mr. Styles is to me."

Sophia's nose wrinkles, "Mr. Payne is very…open. I think he'd tell anyone anything if they asked. But I don't think it’s my place to ask about it." If it were anyone else, Niall would push harder but he can feel how uncomfortable she is at the thought. He'll have to figure it out on his own even if that _does_ mean doing his best to tug it out of Harry's mouth (that Niall was _not_ thinking about last night in bed). "Do you think that Mr. Malik could be the one for you?" Sophia asks after a long moment.

"I'm not sure. I don't know him all that well yet. But—well, I can already feel that there's _something_ there," he knows that for sure. The only other man who's ever unsettled him this much is Harry and that's always felt different. If Harry's heavy-lidded gaze makes him feel bare and unsteady, Zayn's sets him on fire.

"That much was obvious to me, Nialler," Sophia teases, the anxiety fading from her shoulders.

///

Niall should've walked to Gawsworth. Staying home was not an option, both due to the situation and his hope that Zayn will come to the ball, but being forced to choose between sitting in the carriage with his mother, sisters (Julia and Perrie still deeply entrenched in an argument over who gets to dance with some boy first), and Miss Steinfeld or driving the carriage with Greg was hell. He'd only picked driving after he'd realized just how cramped it would've been inside the carriage (argument notwithstanding).

So he'd had the _blessing_ of listening to Greg blathering on about Lord Cowell and Lyme Park and Sandbach for the entire drive to Gawsworth. By the time they're welcomed into the house, his head is killing him which is not a good sign for his potential to enjoy anything about tonight. He pinches his nose, trying to regain his composure as Perrie and Julia bustle by him, running like children into the crowd. He turns to Sophia, preparing to ask her how she wants to go through the night, but their mother is already dragging her off, loudly proclaiming her desire to find Mr. Payne immediately. Niall's left standing with Ashlyn, Greg, and Miss Steinfeld and only Greg looks enthused to be there. "What a lovely house this is," Greg says, stroking his chin, "It does not measure up to Lyme Park, of course, but that's a given."

"I'm sure Mr. Payne would be flattered to hear you say that," Niall says, glancing around the closest room in the hopes of seeing Zayn's dark head.

He feels a tug on his sleeve and turns to see Ashlyn leaning up on her tip-toes, "You've been here before, Nialler. Where can I go be alone?"

"Go up the stairs and down the hallway on the right," Niall murmurs, turning her in the direction of the stairs. "Third door on the left is a library." She gives him a quick grateful hug before darting off towards the stairs.

"Was she looking for something?" Greg asks.

"Looking for the bathroom," Niall lies, not wanting Greg to go tattle to Maura about Ashlyn pulling a disappearing act so early in the night. He'll go fetch her in an hour or so, drag her out for one dance in front of their parents, and then she can be safely deposited back in the closest empty room until it’s time for them to go home.

"Ah, well, in that case, I'm sure you wouldn't be opposed to leading my ward out for the first dance, yes?" Niall's got half a no on his tongue when Greg nudges Miss Steinfeld towards him and walks off.

Niall looks down at her, the slightest smile pulling at the corners of her mouth, and remembers that he's a gentleman, "Well then, I suppose we're dancing."

"If we may, Mr. Horan," she replies with a demure nod.

He holds out his arm to her, guiding her through the crowd to the ballroom, "Please, call me Niall."

"Oh, I couldn't. That would be entirely improper," Niall hopes this is going to be a short song. Half the town seems to already be in the ballroom, a crush of voices that joins the pounding in his head. He guides Miss Steinfeld to the end of the line right as the song changes.

At least the silence of his partner leaves him free to look around the room. There are militiamen everywhere—clearly Perrie and Julia's request for Liam to invite the entire group worked out—but he doesn't see Zayn. He does see Harry and Louis, who are, as expected, lingering on the edge of the room with matching bored expressions. "Are you enjoying Congleton?" he asks when he decides that he should say something. He hates dancing with a silent partner and she’s clearly not going to be the one to spark up a conversation.

"The town is very pretty," Miss Steinfeld murmurs. But she doesn't follow up with anything else, so Niall resigns himself to trying to remember dance steps while keeping an eye out for Zayn. When the dance finally ends, Niall leads Miss Steinfeld over to the crowd of boys circling his youngest sisters. They'll be as good of company for her as anyone else here and she probably has the common sense that Perrie and Julia lack to keep her out of trouble. He knows he’s going to have to keep a close eye on his youngest sisters tonight to let Sophia give her full attention to Liam, but he’ll accept the risks involved with leaving them unsupervised for a little while. At least long enough for him to ascertain whether Zayn is here tonight.

The refreshments are an entire three rooms away and Niall is sweating by the time to makes it to the punch bowl. " _Finally,"_ Holly says, stepping out from behind a couple, "I've been looking everywhere for you. I was beginning to think that _you'd_ abandoned _me_."

"Hardly. I got roped into an immediate dance with Greg's ward," he takes a sip of his punch, wincing at the overly sweet taste, "You look nice. That dress is new, isn’t it?"

"It's so nice to be reminded that you have working eyesight, Niall. Sometimes I do doubt it," Holly teases, “But look at you. Your cravat is straight for once. How many times has Sophia had to fix it for you?"

"No less than twenty since she put it on."

"Impossible. You're never going to get married like this, Nialler," she pats his chest, smoothing out a wrinkle in his lapel.

"Another reason why you'd never want to marry me, then. Absolute travesty with a cravat."

"Alas, you've figured me out. However, I can bear your cravat for long enough to complete a dance," she slides her arm through his, "After a walk around this house, as I know that you're more familiar with the place now than I am."

"Fine by me. I'm looking for someone anyway," as they meander through the crowded rooms, Niall tells her (as quietly as possible) about everything with Zayn. He's only seen the other man twice since the park, both passing meetings in town. Niall's done far more _thinking_ about kissing Zayn than _actually_ doing it. Though he supposes that, to be fair, he's done more in reality with Zayn than he has with Harry, who is an equally prevalent (though less wanted [mostly]) presence in Niall's thoughts. He’s not sure what’s to blame—head, heart, or prick—but he feels like halfway through a fantasy, the other body gets leaner, the hair turning from inky black to warm chestnut curls. It’s rather obnoxious, though not enough to get him to stop.

"And you believe everything he said?" Holly asks as they return to the ballroom.

"How could I _not_?"

"Because you're a man and men tend to think with the wrong head," Niall chokes on his punch, "In the town square that day, you've never resembled Perrie quite so much."

"That has _nothing_ to do with it!" Niall hisses, pulling Holly to a stop at the edge of the dancing, "It all makes perfect sense to me.”

“Does it?” she asks skeptically.

Niall huffs, “You don’t know Mr. Styles like I do. He's arrogant and high handed and—"

" _Niall!"_ Holly hisses through her teeth mere seconds before someone clears their throat. Niall stops only because of how urgent Holly's eyes are and turns to see Harry standing a few feet away, eyebrow raised.

"Mr. Horan," he says politely, bowing his head and leaving Niall wondering how much he just heard. He's not sure whether he'd rather Harry heard nothing or all of it.

"Mr. Styles," he bows too, "This is my dearest friend, Holly Burnham." Holly curtsies. Niall forgets, sometimes, just how elegant she can be.

"Miss Burnham," Harry bows again, his curls catching the light from the chandelier perfectly. "Are you currently occupied, Mr. Horan?"

Niall opens his mouth, about to use Holly as an excuse, but she speaks first, "He's not! He was just taking me on a tour of Gawsworth since he spent so much time here recently."

"In that case, would you do me the honor of joining me for the next dance?"

"Y-you want to dance? With me? Here?" Niall must be dreaming. This is a very boring dream by his standards, particularly dreams with Harry in them, but it simply _can't_ be happening.

"Niall would love to accept," Holly says, patting his arm. Niall gets a cramp in his neck from how quickly he looks down at her face. She smiles back at him innocently, "He's a better dancer than he lets on, but he might tread on your toes if you let him get too distracted, so do be careful."

"The next dance then," Harry bows again and walks back into the crowd. Holly lasts a total of 14 seconds before bursting into laughter.

"Are you _trying_ to humiliate me?" Niall feels light-headed, which is surprising since he thinks all the blood in his body has rushed to his face.

"More that I'm trying to amuse myself, actually. Try to not step on his feet."

"I'll step on _your_ feet," Niall grumbles, reaching to fiddle with his cravat. Holly smacks his hand away, "Ow!"

"It will be fine. You can tolerate the man for a few minutes, surely," Niall really isn't sure he can, but that's beside the point now. He supposes that he could stand Harry up, go hide away with Ashlyn for the rest of the night, but that would only make _him_ look like a coward. He doesn't want that, not when the entirety of the town is here and will likely talk of nothing _but_ tonight for the foreseeable future. Niall would rather not be one of the conversation topics.

He knows the song is about to end, his own personal catastrophe looming mere seconds away, and glares at his unrepentant best friend one more time before heading towards the center of the ballroom. He's stopped halfway there, Harry on the periphery of his vision, by Joshua. "Ah! Just the Horan I was looking for," Joshua says, clapping Niall on the back so hard that Niall wobbles, "I've been asked to deliver a sincere and most regretful apology from Malik. He was unable to come tonight, called back into town on some urgent business."

"Oh," Harry's stare now feels so much more acute, as if Harry's the only other person in the room. Niall shakes his head, trying to get his composure back, "It happens. I'm sure I'll see him again soon."

Joshua's laugh is a little too loud, drawing the attention of people nearby, and Niall gets an unmistakable whiff of ale on the man's breath. "Don't worry, mate, I can guarantee that," he smacks Niall's back again and then saunters off, probably in pursuit of either Perrie or Julia. The song ends, leaving Niall with barely any time to scramble to the end of the line of dancers. Harry's already there, giving Niall another one of those _looks_ that make Niall want to take a long bath and scrub his skin right off. But there's no avoiding it now, he supposes. He hears the distinct tapping of one of the musicians at the far end of the ballroom and tries to think of nothing other than dancing. But it's hard to do with Harry's eyes on him.

///

Harry should've expected that the Horans would be late and blow into the party like a thunderstorm. Mrs. Horan and Sophia were the first to cross his path since he was chatting with Liam and Louis when Sophia was nearly shoved straight into Liam's side by her domineering mother. The girl had turned bright pink, muttering apologies even as her mother talked over her about how glad they were to be there. Then it was the two youngest sisters, running through the room with a gaggle of boys in red coats streaming behind them and forcing everyone else to dart out of the way.

It had taken him nearly half an hour, in comparison, to finally catch a glimpse of Niall. He was dancing with some miniscule brunette girl, probably no older than sixteen, both of them looking entirely unenthused. Niall had spent the entire dance with his eyes wandering the room. Part of Harry had, for some unknown reason, selfishly thought Niall might have been looking for _him_ but he doubts it. There had been only the briefest flicker of recognition when their eyes had met and then Niall was back to his surveying. He'd vanished almost immediately after the dance had ended, giving Harry time to think about why exactly he cares so much about where Niall Horan is at any given time.

It's happening more and more lately. Harry keeps letting Liam drag him into town on the off chance that he’ll run into Niall though he doesn’t know _why._ He just—it’s not that he _likes_ being around Niall. But perhaps Gawsworth has felt a little emptier, a little plainer, without Niall’s voice and laugh filling it up and Harry misses that feeling. It’s _not_ that he misses Niall, though. 

But for tonight, Harry was resolving to ignore any and all intrusive thoughts about the Irishman when a pair of men in uniform had strolled by, one of them casually mentioning that he "had t’ find Niall Horan. Malik wants me t' tell ‘im that ‘e's not comin’ tonight." That had changed things _quite_ a bit.

Not happily, of course, since Harry thinks he's _happiest_ when his brain isn't trying to figure out the enigma that is Niall. It was something darker, a searing urge in the pit of his belly to find Niall and claim his attention for at least a while. Harry doesn't care who Niall might choose to spend his time with—he _doesn't,_ he _won't—_ but the thought of him being fond at _all_ of Zayn is intolerable. He hasn't yet managed to get the image of Niall blushing in the town square as Zayn kissed his hand out of his head. Or the knowledge that Louis had been in town the following day and overheard Sophia commenting that there was a charcoal smudge on Niall's cheek, Niall muttering that Zayn was an artist. And that means that Zayn was _touching_ Niall's cheek along with God knows what else.

Harry doesn't _care_ what else, he _swears_ that he doesn't. Niall can touch and be touched by whoever he wants. Just—anyone other than Zayn. Harry doesn’t want him to touch Zayn, doesn’t want Zayn to touch _him._ And the connotations of that thought have kept him up far too often ever since.

He hadn’t really thought it through when he’d asked the younger man to dance and Niall had seemed just as surprised by the offer as Harry was when the words came out of his mouth. He’d just selfishly wanted to be the object of Niall’s focus and attention for a moment tonight. Perhaps he just wants to believe that Niall’s thinking about _him_ rather than Zayn.

"You know, usually people _talk_ while dancing," Niall's voice pulls him out of his tangled thoughts, "And quite frankly, it's absolute torture watching you _think_ without saying anything."

"What would you like to talk about?" Harry says, pulling all emotion out of his voice until it's the simple, polite tone he's mastered over the last few years. The voice that helps keep him safe.

They step closer, hands brushing as they change sides. Harry wonders if the contact tingles for Niall as much as it does for him. "You're the picky one with the high standards for company, so shouldn't it be up to you to pick a topic?" Harry stays silent, whirling the woman to his right in a circle as Niall does the same. Dancing doesn't come naturally to Niall, Harry can tell, but he's also not exactly fumbling at it. "Come on, pick something. You won't like what I want to talk about," Niall warns.

"Why not?"

"I'm trying to figure out your character," they step close again, palms pressed together, and Harry gets lost in the blue of Niall's eyes. The splotch of yellow gold around his pupils is brighter than the sun, stealing the breath out of Harry’s lungs. "I hear so many things about you that seem to contradict each other. It makes it hard for me to pin you down." 

"I'd really rather you didn't," the words rush past his lips, spurred forth by some anxiety Harry can't put a name to yet, "I doubt it would be beneficial to either of us." It certainly wouldn't be beneficial to whatever feral part of his head has decided to focus on the words _pin you down_ spilling from Niall's lips. And he doesn’t _want_ Niall trying to poke around past his barriers because he thinks that it would be a successful endeavor.

"S'pose not," Niall agrees, sounding more thoughtful than anything else as they step apart again. He shakes his head gently, like he's trying to rid himself of something, "But that only makes it more important for you to fill the silence, Mr. Styles."

Harry licks his lips, trying to find something simple to talk about. Nothing feels _simple_ with Niall though and that's the problem. He settles on the girl Niall danced with earlier, "Who did you dance with after arriving?"

The topic seems to be good enough for Niall. He rolls his eyes, "That's my… _relation's_ ward, Miss Steinfeld. She's arguably more silent than you are, though I found her silence easier to endure."

"Why is that?"

"I don't know," he hates how honest Niall sounds. _Despises_ it, really. One of them needs to understand what's going on, what causes this…tension, this push and pull between them, and Harry isn't sure that he can do it. "Why did you ask me to dance?"

"I don’t know," Harry echoes softly. Niall frowns, the tip of his tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth. "Do you go into town often?" Maybe if he knows Niall’s schedule, it will be easier to coordinate ways to run into him in the town square. And maybe _then_ Harry can figure out why the hell he _wants_ to run into Niall so much.

Niall stumbles slightly, leaving Harry to steady him with his hands on Niall’s trim waist, so he doesn't topple straight into Harry's chest. There's a moment where they stand like that, still and pressed close as if the room has emptied out entirely and all Harry sees is crystalline blue and molten sunshine gold. Niall’s lips look so soft, shining when he nervously runs his tongue along his bottom lip. Harry’s throat goes dry and he furiously pulls his eyes up to distract himself. But that only gives him the chance to notice that Niall has _freckles_. Harry never noticed them before, was never this close to be able to see them but now they're all he knows and he wants to spend the rest of the night tracing them, finding constellations with his fingertips.

Harry's dangerously close to reaching out and doing just that when Niall jumps back, cheeks reddening, and glances to the couple next to them to figure out where they are in the dance. "I—er, yes, on an almost daily basis. My youngest sisters tend to need chaperones, so Sophia and I fill in to make sure that they’re alright," he licks his lips again, "I saw you and Mr. Payne in town the other day. I would've come to say hello with Sophia, but I was making a new acquaintance." Ice freezes over Harry's spine, sinking bitterly into his stomach as Niall's face flattens out into an impassive mask that doesn't suit him at all. He should always be open and grinning and _free._ "I believe you know Mr. Malik?" if he’s trying to sound casual, he’s doing a terrible job at it.

"We are acquainted, yes," Harry says through his teeth.

Niall's eyes narrow, "From what he told me, the two of you used to be quite close friends." Damn it. If Zayn's told his story, Harry's sure it paints him in the worst possible light. He normally wouldn’t give a damn what someone like Zayn said about him, but it’s different if whatever villainous tale Zayn’s spun affects what _Niall_ thinks of him.

"Mr. Malik can make friends quite easily. It's his ability to keep them that is sadly lacking."

"And I take it that he lost your friendship," they step closer again, but Harry keeps the contact as brief as possible this time. The sparks aren’t good right now. They’re perilously close to breaking through Harry’s walls and he can’t let that happen, not for Niall. Niall would run him over, ruin him entirely, and Harry doesn’t think he’d be able to stop it. Maybe some dark part of him wouldn’t even _want_ to stop it. He doesn’t like that thought, not when it puts all the neat, orderly lines he’s drawn around his life in jeopardy.

"Among other things," Harry mumbles. The dance is almost over. He's not sure if he's thankful for that or not. Niall's brow is furrowed and suddenly Harry understands his comment earlier. It's _torture_ to watch him think in silence, left to wonder what thoughts are crossing his wild mind. He's not used to Niall being quiet anyway. Even with the crush of noise around them, a disjointed symphony of voices and music, Niall's silence is louder.

And then the song ends, bringing them closer together for a moment, hands pressed back-to-back. "I don't understand you," Niall finally says.

"The feeling is mutual," the amused flicker in Niall's eyes is too fleeting. He steps back and bows, a motion that looks far too formal coming from him. Harry opens his mouth again, not even sure what he plans on saying, but a shrieking giggle tears Niall's attention away. One of his sisters is sprinting along the edge of the ballroom, one of the soldiers' swords held above her head like a trophy.

"I should—ugh," Niall sighs, scratching the back of his neck, "Thank you for the dance, Mr. Styles." Harry watches him leave, fingers twitching at his sides as if he could've grabbed Niall and kept him in place. He wasn’t done with Niall yet, wasn’t ready to give him up to the rest of the ball even when their conversation had seemed to hit an impasse. Here it is again, this war in his head between feeling like he should care nothing for the man and feeling like he cares far too _much._ He steps out of the line of dancers before someone else can attempt to be his partner and decides to try and find Louis.

While his best friend is standing in the same spot as earlier, he must've gone to the refreshments room in between as he hands Harry a fresh glass of wine, "You're gone for that boy, mate."

"I'm sorry?"

"The Horan boy. Absolutely _infatuated_ with him."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You're a pitiful liar, Harold," Louis claps him on the shoulder, "Good luck on getting him out of your head. Think Malik might've gotten there first anyway." Harry goes tense and whatever expression crosses his face makes Louis pull his hand back, "Not saying that I think _that's_ any better, mind you. You're far too good for a nobody like Horan, but he still deserves someone better than _Zayn."_

"I don't care what Mr. Horan does," Harry says into the unsympathetic rim of the wine glass.

" _Oh_ , my apologies,” Louis drawls, “But if you _do_ see my friend Mr. Styles, who looks identical to you and is obsessed with the Irish lad, do pass that on to him."

///

He should _not_ have danced with Harry. There's far too much going on right now that Niall needs to be focused on, none of which has _anything_ to do with Harry, but that’s all he can think about. He’s never been so close to Harry before and his whole body’s buzzing with the effects of it. When he’d almost tripped and Harry had steadied him, hands on Niall’s waist, it had felt like everything else slipped away until they were the only ones in the ballroom, in the _world._ Niall’s _never_ felt like that before.

But he can’t let himself stay distracted by trying to dissect every word of that conversation. Sophia is still spending her time with Liam (though Niall doubts either of them are complaining) and Ashlyn is still in hiding upstairs, leaving Niall in charge of keeping the rest of his family in line. He's already cut off Perrie and Julia's fourth attempt at getting wine instead of punch and _second_ race through the house with a stolen saber. "You used to be _fun,_ Nialler!" Perrie pouts, stomping her foot as he snatches the saber from her hands.

"Promise you, sis. At home, you can run around with as many sharp objects as you like, and I won't say a word. But it won't do anyone here any good if you lop someone's head off by accident, right?" she rolls her eyes, scampering back off towards Julia and their gaggle of friends. Niall hands the saber back to its owner, mumbles an apology, and wishes that his parents had had the good sense to stop at 3 children. He could use something stronger than wine to drink. A good glass of ale and a dark room where he could be alone to catch his breath would do wonders right now.

He leans against the wall, rubbing his temple to try and get the pounding in his head to at least slow down a little. Tonight _must_ be half-over at this point. Soon, they'll be back at Little Moreton and Niall can sleep this whole fucking night off. Zayn's not here, his family is running wild, and Niall briefly lost all his senses and danced with _Harry._ "Niall," a hand gently curls around the back of his neck, "Are you alright?" He must look _truly_ pitiful, as there's not a single trace of amusement in Holly's voice.

"I want to go home," he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose, "It’s too loud and there are too many people and I hate nights like this."

"I know you do," she tells him, stepping a little closer, "But, um, you _might_ want to go deal with your mother. I think she's had a _wee_ bit too much wine and she's being _quite_ loud. Sophia is doing her best to keep Mr. Payne out of the drawing room but…" Holly's wince does _not_ bode well.

"Shit," Niall says under his breath, standing up straight again, "Can you mind Perrie and Julia for a minute then?" Holly nods, pats his cheek, and then darts off towards the group in the corner. Gawsworth had seemed so massive when he was here last. Now every room is bursting at the seams in the worst way, leaving Niall to navigate a maze of bodies and dodge errant elbows while trying not to think too much about how small the place feels.

He hears his mother before he sees her, "Well _yes,_ Mr. Collins has shown a _great_ interest in my Sophia, but she has her sights set on higher ground, doesn't she? Mr. Payne will do _quite_ nicely, quite nicely _indeed!_ It will be a magnificent wedding; I can assure you." Niall swears under his breath, rounding a pillar and crashing straight into Harry. Just like when they were dancing, it knocks the air out of his lungs and the ground out from beneath his body, leaving him tethered to reality only via Harry's eyes. He swallows, trying to blink himself out of his trance, but it's his mother's voice that does it for him. "Well, that's just the _thing,_ Dorothy! Clearly, Mr. Payne is the _only_ suitable gentleman out of the newcomers. He might not be as _rich_ as _some_ of them, but he's a great deal more amiable and kinder, don't you think?"

"Excuse me," he mutters, looking away before Harry's eyes can narrow any further, and slips into the drawing room. He's going to sew his mother's mouth shut. She's holding court with all the other mamas in town, cheeks ruddy enough to hint at the amount of wine she must've already had.

"And here's my son!" she motions to Niall with the end of a fork coated in cake crumbs, "Been hiding away all night, I bet, not dancing with anyone as _usual!"_

"On the contrary, Mama, I've danced twice tonight," he says, "And I would be dancing more if I wasn't busy looking after Perrie and Julia."

She clucks her tongue, swatting at him with her fan, "Oh, let the girls have their _fun!_ With any luck, one of _them_ will do what _you_ won't and get married before my nerves take me away!"

"Don't you worry, Maura. I'm sure your family will be hearing wedding bells soon enough," one of the other ladies says knowingly.

"God willing! Oh, I shall sleep so much _sounder_ knowing that Sophia has married into such a fortune!"

"Mama, will you keep your voice _down?"_ Niall hisses. Half the people in the room are actively listening in on this conversation and the other half, he assumes, are simply better at pretending they're not. Harry's just outside, leaning against the wall opposite the doorway with his arms crossed and a frown on his face that makes Niall even more uneasy.

"You _hush,_ Niall. Go stand in a corner or whatever it is you always do at parties. You'd probably make friends with that _Mr. Styles_ if you did, since _he_ can't be bothered to enjoy anything!" Niall wants to do more than sew his mother's mouth shut. He wants to do that and _then_ run off to Ireland forever. Grow a beard, give away everything but his instruments and travel around his homeland like a one-man wandering band. "I'm telling you, Mary, I would simply _dread_ having _that_ man as a son-in-law, no matter _how_ rich he is! I already have _one_ son who tries my patience every day, I don’t need a son-in-law who does it too! Mr. Payne will be far better, far more comforting."

"You're going to embarrass Sophia," he's not above begging, but he supposes that he's also not above letting his mother continue to use him as her conversation topic if it means she stops shouting about Liam. Niall looks back to the doorway but Harry's vanished. He's not sure where he's grateful for that or not.

She scoffs into her drink, "What is there to be embarrassed about? She's about to marry better than any of us could've expected! Far better than _you_ ever will. If that's not reason enough to celebrate, I don't know what is!"

"They aren't even _engaged_ yet, Mama."

"They will be, which is more than I'll probably ever be able to say for _you!"_ her friends all burst into tipsy, tittering laughter. From the hallway, Niall hears the telltale stampede and giggling that goes along with Perrie or Julia running wild and wishes yet again he were back at home.

///

"Mail for you, Miss," their maid says, handing Sophia a small envelope sealed with bronze wax. Niall leans over from his spot on the sofa, putting his fiddle down so he doesn't accidentally smack her in the face with it. From experience, she tends to not enjoy that.

"Mail from _Mr. Payne,_ hmm?" he teases, seeing the note on the front.

"Hush," the reprimanding look she sends him is tempered by her blush. While the ball had been mostly a disaster for Niall, she'd confessed that it had been one of the best nights of her life and she was almost positive that Liam really did care for her. Niall had responded that a tree would be certain of that by this point, with how openly besotted the man is, and had promptly received a throw pillow to the face. 

Sophia's eyes flicker across the page and the color slowly starts fading from her cheeks. Niall stays silent until he physically can't hold his words back anymore. "Soph? What is it?"

She swallows, "It's a letter from Mr. Payne's aunt. Mr. Payne left for London on urgent business and doubts he'll be back until spring."

" _What?"_ Niall snatches the letter from her hands—the fact that she lets him is only more damning—and scans the page himself. He'd only met Liam's aunt in passing, since the woman had left shortly after he'd arrived to stay at Gawsworth, and the fact that Liam had entrusted _her_ to break this news to Sophia makes Niall want to break Liam's nose. He glances back at his sister, who's staring out the window with her jaw set. "Don't worry, Soph, things will work out well. I'm sure he'll be back here as soon as his business finishes. I'm betting he just didn't want to come back late, so that's why he set such a distant date for his return," even injecting as much optimism into his words as he can doesn't make Sophia's shoulders relax.

"I must've been mistaken," she whispers.

"About what?"

"His affection for me," she glances back at him for only a moment, but enough for him to see the tears in her eyes, "I'm not an idiot, Niall. He couldn't even write me himself or come to say goodbye before leaving. He obviously is trying to let me down gently because he doesn't feel the same way."

Niall scoots over, cupping Sophia's cheeks and making her face him, "He adores you, Sophia; that was obvious to _everyone._ Whatever business took him from Congleton won't keep him away forever. He'll come back bearing a ring for you, I know it." Her lip wobbles and she goes willingly when he wraps her up in his arms, tucking her head under his chin.

///

Niall's playing chess with Ashlyn when he hears the foreboding sound of his mother clearing her throat from the open doorway. His mother rarely has any compunctions about simply bursting into a room unannounced—Niall learned early in his teenage years that attempting to shut his door to get privacy meant little—so the fact that she announced herself at all is a bad sign. He moves his pawn forward and then dares to look in her direction.

He's not sure which is worse, the fact that Maura already looks like she's won some holy battle or the fact that Greg is standing behind her, looking equally pleased. "Niall, darling, Mr. Collins would like to speak to you," his mother trills.

"Nothing stopping him from talking then," Niall replies.

"Niall!" he flinches at her tone, "You will speak to Mr. Collins _alone_ and you will be polite to him lest he think I don't know how to raise my children. Ashlyn, come with me."

One day, Niall would dearly love to train Ashlyn in confidence, give her the spine that he knows a smart girl like her would turn into a masterful weapon when wielded properly. But today is not that day, as she merely shoots him a look that screams a million apologies before following their mother out of the room, the door clicking shut behind them. "Well then, the floor is yours," Niall would keep playing the game, but he knows that Ashlyn gets annoyed when he plays for her and then they have to restart. But he can't just leave his hands unoccupied, so he starts chewing on his nail as he watches Greg adjust his coat.

"I was speaking with your mother about marriage," Greg starts. Niall's stomach immediately drops. Oh no. "I had originally thought to pursue marriage with your sister, Sophia, but your mother has informed me that she is likely to be engaged soon," Niall nods, thanking the gods for Liam Payne even if the bastard’s abandoned Sophia without a goodbye, "You, on the other hand, are unmarried and I believe not likely to be any time soon, yes?"

"I'm not marrying you, Greg," Niall says flatly.

Greg looks about as horrified as Niall is at the concept, "Absolutely not! A man of the church like myself—it would be unthinkable. And I know that I would _never_ get the approval of Lord Cowell, who is truly the most sensible man in all of England." Niall's about to breathe a sigh of relief, of not having to run the risk of waking up every morning beside _Greg,_ when the blonde continues, "I believe it would be most suitable and advantageous to everyone involved if you married my ward."

The sigh of relief turns into a choked off gasp. "Your—Miss Steinfeld? God's sake, man, she's younger than _Perrie!"_

"There is nothing wrong with a young wife, dear cousin. In fact, Lord Cowell frequently recommends a youthful wife to maximize the time to create an heir. And I believe that you got on with her quite well, yes? You made a splendid pair dancing at the Gawsworth ball," Niall had almost forgotten that he danced with the slip of a girl there to be honest. Dancing and verbally sparring with Harry had taken over his memories of the night entirely. "She does not have a large dowry, of course, but I would ensure that the portion you receive from it would be substantial enough to assist in the settlement of at least one of your remaining sisters. And I do believe that a partnership between you and me with regards to Little Moreton Hall could be beneficial to all involved. Your mother has agreed to the marriage—quite happily, might I add—so I think that a fall wedding could be very feasible, and Lord Cowell has already agreed to—"

"You have yet to realize that I haven't given an answer, _Greg,"_ Niall says, nearly shouting just to cut Greg off.

"I did not think one would be necessary. Surely, you understand the efficiency of this match and have no objections to—"

"I have a _lot_ of objections, actually. But I can save my own breath and your time by summarizing them all with a flat _'No,'"_ Greg frowns as if Niall's just begun speaking in some made up language.

"Come now, cousin, I know—"

"You don't know me, _cousin._ I don't know you either and I know your ward even less. I _also_ ," he continues when Greg opens his mouth again, "have no _interest_ in getting to know your ward for any…wifely purposes." The thought alone makes him cringe.

Niall’s always known that when Greg is irritated, the corner of his eyebrow starts to twitch rather like a caterpillar being poked with a stick and right now, it’s wiggling _furiously,_ "Not to be the bearer of unfortunate judgement, Niall, but your mother seems to despair of you marrying _at all_. She thought that an arrangement like this would be suitable for everyone. You should remember that it might be the best offer you're ever going to get."

"My mother is welcome to her despair, in that case. I assure you it will be nothing new to her and her nerves. If I die unmarried and alone, so be it. But I cannot marry your ward," cannot, could not, will not.

"You would let the poor girl down? She finds you quite handsome, you know."

"If you told her that we were engaged before I'd agreed to it, then _you_ are the one who let her down. My answer will not change. I wish you all the luck in finding her someone else," he stands, gives a jerky bow that goes against his every desire, and walks out the door.

As he should've guessed, he nearly trips straight over his mother. "You—you—you _ungrateful boy!"_ she shrieks, smacking his shoulder, "You will turn around this instant and tell Mr. Collins that you have changed your mind!"

"I will _not,"_ he pushes past her as delicately as possible, considering the narrowness of the halls when combined with her flapping hands.

"Niall James Horan, you get back here this instant!" Niall keeps moving, hands fisted as his side, nearly kicking the door open in his haste to get outside. The fresh air is like a balm, soothing his fraying nerves as he sucks in deep breaths. Even if he _weren’t_ set on marrying for love, Niall thinks he would turn that proposal down. God, that girl’s just so _young,_ just as much of an innocent child as Perrie is. He doubts he'd even be able to stomach the thought of bedding her for several years. _And_ it would mean living forever near Greg, probably under his thumb, and Niall would rather become a monk or maybe even swim back to Ireland with his hands tied behind his back, possibly even both. He walks until he gets to the creek he and Sophia played in as children on hot days, invented complicated story lines where they were intrepid explorers conquering unheard of lands. Depending on how angry his mother _actually_ is with him right now, he might find himself shipped off to an unheard land by the end of the day.

He stands there, doing his best to skip stones across the shallow water, until he hears the encroaching sound of his mother, mid-tirade but at full power, as though the bellows from hell itself are keeping her fires lit. "There he is! You must tell him, Mr. Horan, you must _make_ him agree!" Niall turns to see his father, stony-faced compared to the manic energy of his stomping mother, and shoves his hands in his pockets.

"I won't do it, Papa. You cannot make me," he says before his parents have even stopped moving.

"You can and you _will!"_ his mother shouts, "Tell him, Mr. Horan! He _must_ marry that girl!"

His father sighs, taking off his spectacles and wiping them on his sleeve, "Your mother informs me, with all the concern and worry due any mother, that you have refused Mr. Collins' offer to arrange a marriage between you and his ward."

" _Ungrateful boy!"_ Niall clenches his jaw, reminds himself that regardless of how much she irritates him, she _is_ his mother and he _won't_ curse at her like he wants to right now. He nods instead. "That is likely the _best_ offer that he will _ever_ get with how pig-headed he is about marriage and he _cannot_ refuse it! We will all be ruined!" Maura continues, fluttering her fan so vigorously that Niall thinks he sees a butterfly behind her get blown off course entirely.

" _I won't do it_. She's practically a child and I don't love her," he doesn't and he couldn't.

"You are going to end up dying all alone if you don't give up this _foolish_ insistence on love! And then what will the rest of us do? Your sisters will have to beg for money, they'll never get good husbands, we shall be _cast out_ of our home!" Niall closes his eyes just so he doesn't have to watch his mother's hysterics. "If he does not marry that girl, I swear that I shall never speak to him again! He will be dead to me from this day forward!" currently, that doesn't sound like worst thing in the world.

His father's sigh is long and rumbly, like an earthquake coming from the very depths of him. "Niall, the choice is yours to make. If you do not marry Mr. Collins' ward, your mother will never speak to you again," Niall nods, tentatively opening his eyes, "and _I_ will never speak to you again if you do."

His grin is neither subtle nor respectful, strictly speaking, but it spreads across Niall's face regardless of reason or his mother's indignant shriek. "Thank you, Papa," he steps forward just to wrap his father in a short, one-armed hug before heading back to the house. He finds his sisters hovering by the doorway and has no doubt whatsoever that they heard the gist of what happened. "Mama says she shall never speak to me again. How long do you think that promise shall last?" he asks, running his hand through his hair.

"I say she'll make it to breakfast tomorrow," Julia says as Perrie giggles by her side.

"I think she'll break by nighttime, if only to give you another lecture before saying good night," Ashlyn offers next.

Sophia merely chuckles, "As Mr. Collins just announced his imminent departure, I think she'll be speaking to you again by dinner."

In the end, as usual, Sophia is right.


	3. I don't like that fallin' feels like flyin' 'til the bone crush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Niall visits his newly-married best friend, Harry's a little too sure of himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from Taylor Swift's Gold Rush
> 
> There's a random scene from Sophia's POV here because reasons, I guess.

Greg's been gone for three days but Niall still hasn't gotten his skin to stop crawling over the fact that he could've been engaged to a child by now. It's like a splinter lodged under his skin, this alternate reality constantly playing in the back of his mind. Living forever under Greg's thumb if he was controlling the purse strings. It sounds like a living nightmare, the more he thinks about it. While his mother has resumed speaking to him, most of her words are complaints about how he's antagonizing her nerves and they're all going to suffer forever or how he's the most ungrateful son any mother has ever had. He’s taken to responding with hums and “Yes, Mama, I truly am the worst.”

His father, whose opinion Niall cares vastly more about, had simply confirmed that he was proud of the choice Niall made. _"You stuck to your principles, son, and didn't take the easy route out. That's the mark of a good man,"_ he'd said, clapping his hand to Niall's shoulder and making him feel like an eager child all over again.

He's walking through their backyard, trying to make sure the fence that separates them from their neighbor's farm looks to be in good shape, when he hears someone calling his name. He turns to see Holly making her way through the unruly grass, holding her bonnet on with one hand and her skirts up with the other. "Showing me your ankles, are you? How scandalous, Holly," he teases, leaning against the fence, “You’re going to get me all hot and bothered.”

"You wish, Horan," she retorts instantly, "More like trying to not utterly ruin this dress with grass stains." She comes to stand next to him and he lets her catch her breath for a moment, admiring the slight upwards tilt of her nose and the delicate line of her chin. Her face is red, the color clashing rather remarkably with the poppy color of her bonnet ribbons (not that Niall's about to comment on that).

"You're looking rather flushed today, Holls."

"Yes, well, I went to Little Moreton looking for you and was not expecting to have to go on a blasted hike to hunt you down," she flicks his shoulder.

"Looking for me?" that unsettles him for reasons he can't quite put his finger on, “Was I supposed to meet you for something?”

Holly shakes her head, tightening the knot on her bonnet and then staring out over the fields of the neighbor's yard, "No, I just wanted to see you. I heard you were nearly engaged."

Niall snorts, "Well, much to my mother's distress, I'm not. And it's not _just_ that I didn't love her, by the way. She's Perrie's age and that—I don't think I could've stomached it."

"That makes sense. I would've judged you if you'd given up your promise just for the sake of an easy resolution. But," she pauses, chewing on her lip, "well, it would've been nice to live together."

"I—what?"

She drags her finger across the old, warped wood of the fence, "Mr. Collins proposed to me the day before he left Congleton and I accepted."

"You—Holly, you _didn't!"_

"Niall, I _did!"_ she snaps back, eyes watery but sharp when she turns to him. He gapes at her, mouth working wildly as if it's trying to stay limber for when he's able to form words again. The idea seems blasphemous—his bright, teasing Holly forever latched to a miserable prick like Greg. The breath she sucks in seems to fill her whole body, setting her shoulders into a determined line, " _You_ might have the option of waiting around forever to find someone you love. Women don't, _I_ don't. I'm nearly 24 now, Niall, and my prospects haven't been great for ages. This is likely the best offer I'll ever get at this point. I need a husband, he needs a wife, and that's all that matters to me."

Niall swallows, his neck heating up with something like guilt, perhaps. "Holly…" he starts but doesn't even know where to go from there. He wishes he could love her, really, because then she wouldn't be this desperate.

She sighs, "Look, it's—I'm truly alright with it, Niall, I promise. I've never been a romantic like you. I just want to be settled somewhere, have a house of my own and babies to care for. Mr. Collins can give me that. But—but it would be nice to know that I'm not leaving here with your judgement."

A tear trickles down her round cheek, glinting in the sun as soon as it slips out from the shade of her bonnet, and Niall reaches up to wipe it away with his thumb, "You aren't. As little as I think of Greg, I think the _most_ of you and I know that you can make it work. If this is what you want, then I can't be anything other than happy for you." Even if it feels like he's forcing it.

It's worth it when Holly smiles, rubbing her nose against her hand, "Good. You must promise to visit me whenever you can. It'd be nice to see a friendly face from home."

"Usually, I depend on only seeing Greg every other year, but I suppose I can make an exception for you, petal," he winds his arm around her waist, letting her press her face against his shoulder, "If he ever hurts you in any way, you let me know."

"You think I can't handle myself?" her voice wobbles but it still has the teasing tone he knows from her.

"On the contrary, I just want to be there to help you bury the body," she laughs into his jacket, her bonnet sliding back on her head a little, enough for him to kiss her forehead, "I'm going to miss you, Holls."

"I'll miss you too, Ni. I suppose it's finally time for me to see if you're any good at writing letters."

"Don't get your hopes up too much on that, but I'll try my hardest."

"Perhaps I'll enlist Sophia then. She can strap you to a desk once a month and force you to write more than a few lines," Sophia probably would, is the thing, so Niall supposes that he should get used to the thought now.

They walk to the road, taking the long way back so Niall can see Holly to her family's house before returning to Little Moreton. Once he's home, he heads straight for his bedroom, nimbly dodging the argument his mother—clearly having heard the news about Holly and Greg—tries to snare him in as he walks past the parlor. He flops out on his bed, letting one leg hang off the edge, and stares at the vaulted ceiling, the one small window casting a distinct ray of sunlight on the wood floor.

He sighs, letting the air push his lips out. He's going to _miss_ Holly. It's not like she's his only friend in town, he supposes, but she's his _closest._ She's the only person outside of Sophia that he thinks he can say anything to without fear of real judgement and now she'll be gone. He's not sure what he'll do when Sophia gets married and leaves too. Maybe he'd gotten used to the thought that she'd marry Liam and forever live just a few miles off at Gawsworth, but that feels like less of a sure thing now that Liam and his party have left for London.

"Come on in, Soph," he says when he hears his twin's signature four soft knocks on his door. Sophia slips into his room, shutting the door behind her. Her hair's down, swept carefully behind her ears and cascading in a silky wave down her shoulders. She's wearing one of her simpler day dresses, the kind of thing she wore around town before Liam arrived and she was always trying to look her best. "Reckon you heard about Holly then?"

Sophia nods, climbing into his bed next to him without asking. Not that Niall would turn her down, never Sophia. "Mama is spitting mad about it, keeps going on about how now she's going to get Little Moreton since none of us are ever getting married at this rate," Niall rolls onto his side to face Sophia just like they did as kids. They shared a bed for a while after arriving in Congleton, clinging to each other as they tried to adjust to being so far from home. With the blankets tucked over their heads, they'd made a shelter from their bickering parents and crying siblings and all the curious eyes of the town.

"You'll get married, Soph, I know it. Liam will show up on our doorstep one day, already on one knee with a speech prepared."

Her laugh isn't nearly as full as he wants it to be, "I'm not so sure of that. I haven't heard from him once since he left for London." She shakes her head, "But that's not why I came up here. I just wanted to make sure that you're alright. I know how close you and Holly are."

"Ah, I'll be fine, sis. She said that this is what she wants, that this is probably the best offer she's going to get. I hate that she's going to be married to _him,_ but I can't begrudge her for wanting to get married."

"But you're feeling guilty," Sophia says, so clearly that Niall blinks, replays what he just said to make sure that she's not just parroting his own words back to him. But no, she's just able to read him as usual.

He chews on his nail, "It's just—suppose I wish I could've loved her because then she could've married me, you know? I'm not ever going to claim I'm perfect, but I _do_ know that I'm hell of a lot better than _Greg_. Maybe wanting to fall in love _is_ foolish, I don't know." He rolls onto his stomach, perfectly able to feel Sophia's gaze on his back anyway.

"It's not _foolish,_ Nialler. As much as I harp on you about it, I think it's a good goal to strive for and I truly hope that you find someone that you love. I don't want to see you end up alone, but I don't want to see you locked into some miserable marriage either," Sophia pets his hair, scratching lightly at the base of his neck, "But—well, not everyone gets the privilege of waiting."

"She said that, said women can't wait around like that. Which I think is patent nonsense, by the way."

Sophia giggles, "Of course you do, and I quite agree, but she's right. I'm a romantic too, you know, I'm just more…pragmatic about it than you are."

"Show off," he mutters into his pillow, hissing when Sophia pinches his ear.

"All women must be pragmatic, Nialler. It's the only way we can stand to be married to foolish men at all."

He turns his head just enough to squint at her, "I'll pay you ten—no, _twenty_ pounds if you can name _one_ time that Mama has been pragmatic. Ever."

Sophia's attempt at looking stern fails mere seconds before she dissolves into laughter again, "Maybe not _all_ women. But _I_ am."

"You are," Niall reaches out to brush her hair back and tweak her nose, "and I think that you'll fall pragmatically in love with someone one day. Hopefully Liam, at this point."

"Hopefully," Sophia allows, eyes shining with ill-concealed nerves, "But I—I'm trying to not get my heart set on him now that he's left Congleton. It does me no good to dwell on it endlessly."

"Suppose it doesn't, so I'll dwell on it for you," she hums, scooting closer and snuggling against his side, "Would be nice to have you married and close, after all. Can't imagine having to travel days on end to see you. It's going to hurt with Holly, but I think it'll be actual torture with you."

"I know," she whispers back, nails digging into his side as he kisses her forehead.

///

Holly looks quite nice, the beauty of her smile dwarfing the elegance of her cream-colored dress. Niall's clinging to that smile to get him through the sight of watching his best friend marry one of his least favorite people in the world. Most of Congleton had turned out for Holly and Greg's wedding, cramming themselves into the church to sweat through the ceremony that was longer than anyone expected (or wanted) thanks to Greg's need to make speeches.

Niall shuffles up the receiving line, watching as Holly graciously accepts the congratulations from the Palvins. "You're doing better than I expected," his father murmurs behind him.

"What do you mean?"

"You have a soft spot for Miss Burnham, don't you? Considering her choice of groom, I'd expected you to be far more upset," Niall would really appreciate it if people would stop giving him their condolences. It was fine when Sophia did it because she knew all the context of the situation. But half the guests here seem to think that Niall's hiding some secret heartbreak and it's getting a little obnoxious.

"I never loved her like that," he says patiently, "I may think her new husband's insufferable, but I only want the best for her. If she's happy, I can be happy." It's what he's been saying to everyone here (minus the bit about Greg being insufferable).

"I stand corrected then," Bobby says, "I was hoping our household wouldn't be dealing with any other romantic disappointments. I'm not sure how much more I can tolerate."

Niall frowns, "Sophia's—"

"Trying her hardest, I know. Bravest girl in the house, she is. But her getting caught up in her own thoughts leaves the house rather less controlled," that is a fair point. Sophia's been spending more time in her room with the door closed, shutting everyone (Niall included) out, and the general state of chaos in Little Moreton has risen accordingly. Niall can only do so much on his own. On the other hand, Sophia should be allowed to be hurt and grieve as much as she wants without people thinking she’s shirking her duties. Niall makes a mental note to try and pick up more of Sophia’s usual tasks to ease some of her burden. "I have half a mind to forbid her _and_ you from marrying in general. Lord knows I'd never get a moment's peace without you two there."

"Love you too, Papa," it's a compliment Niall will take even if it makes him want to roll his eyes and say that he and Sophia shouldn't be the only two responsible for keeping a running household. They shuffle forward again, bringing them to the head of the line.

Holly lights up at the sight of him, "Niall! Finally, I was waiting to see you." When he hugs her, she digs her fingers into his sides, "And you even dressed up for me!"

"Don't know what you're talking about," he murmurs into her hair, woven through with pearl pins and flowers. She swats at his arm, pushing him back to smooth out his sleeves.

"Cousin," Greg says a little too loudly, as if he's trying to break up the moment. Niall keeps smiling, feeling his cheeks burn with the effort, "I'm so glad that you and your family could make it to this joyous day for my new wife and me."

"We wouldn't have dared to miss it," Niall's father says, "We're truly so pleased that your search for a wife has ended."

"If only my search for a husband for Miss Steinfeld had ended as well," Greg's voice is crisp, his eyes sharp, and Niall lets both bounce off his skin. He's got better things to think about.

"Don’t worry, husband, as soon as I'm settled in, we can begin the hunt straight away," Niall recognizes that gentle pat from Holly, has felt it a million times before, and it seems to work just as well on Greg.

"Lord Cowell will be happy to assist us. His taste is of the highest caliber and," Niall and his father both bow and scramble out of the line as Greg prattles on, equally unwilling to listen to anything else about Lord Cowell. Niall's expecting his father to vanish immediately in search of somewhere private, but he follows Niall over to a table at the edge of the assembly hall.

"I believe the Millers were coming. I'll have to look for Willie in a moment, but until then, I shall enjoy the company of my favorite son," Bobby says with a wink.

Niall snorts, "Thank god for that. I was beginning to think I was your least favorite son."

"Only on days where you beat me at chess."

"Sometimes, the student must beat the master, hmm?" it's an odd thing, that realization that your parents are getting _old._ His father's hair is thinning and getting whiter by the day and the lines by his eyes and mouth are only getting deeper. When Niall was a child, he thought Bobby would never get old. He'd stay the same age forever and would always be there to teach Niall something new or give wisdom from the sanctity of his office. He’d live surrounded by the books that never aged either, only got more and more well-loved with folds in the pages and dents in the binding. "Do you still remember your wedding day with Mama?"

His father sighs, pulling off his spectacles and wiping them on his shirtsleeve, "Of course I do. Felt like all of Mullingar turned out for it. She was a pretty sight that day, son, all light hair and bright eyes. The ceremony was lovely, and the reception went all night until the local tavern had depleted its stocks. We didn’t get to bed until nearly dawn and—well, maybe the miracle that was twins came from the miracle of us being able to handle the marriage bed at all." Niall does his best to muffle his laughter in the back of his hand.

"Maybe that's a sign that you should've waited a night instead."

"Ah, I don't think so. The two of you were handfuls at times, but my life got better when you were born. Never forget the first time I held you both, you in one arm as you screamed your head off and Sophia in the other as she looked at me like a silent little doll."

"Never really known how to be quiet, have I?"

His father shakes his head, "I suppose not, but you know how to be _yourself,_ and that's what matters. You don't change, don't bend and break for the sake of someone else."

"Mama calls that stubbornness."

"And I call it strength," warmth settles in his stomach. Silly as it may be, Niall's always lived for these little compliments from his father. Maybe it's just the fact that his father's felt more like a close friend than an actual parent for most of Niall's life, so these moments of fatherly validation hit him harder.

Niall's not sure where all this new introspection on his behavior is coming from, but he has the sinking suspicion that it started with green eyes and the word _tolerable_ spoken in a low, smooth voice. Harry's _gone_ now though, likely not coming back for ages if at all, so by Niall's reasoning, his tangled mood should be gone too. And yet.

And yet.

His father reaches over to ruffle his hair the way he's always done, since Niall was still in leading strings back in Mullingar. "Don't get too in your head, son. All this," he motions to the room, the chattering crowd of people and dwindling receiving line in front of Holly and Greg, "will come to you in time. You don't want to rush it." Niall's gaze drifts instinctually towards his mother, standing with Perrie and Julia on the opposite end of the room. Bobby sighs, "You're all worth it to me, Niall. You and your sisters. But don't rush it."

"Wasn't planning on it," he stands up, tugging at his sleeves, "What's your bet on whether they're serving ale already?"

"Well, we're in England and it's barely midday on a Tuesday."

"Punch it is," Niall would take a detour to find Sophia, but he sees her standing in a corner with Danielle, her friend's face mournful, and doubts he should interrupt right now. He knows Sophia hates being coddled in public just as much as he does.

And it's worth it when he arrives at the refreshments table to find Zayn pouring himself a glass of punch already. He hasn't seen Zayn since the ball, too busy at home minding his sisters in more ways than one, and he's just a little startled again at how _pretty_ Zayn is. Zayn glances up at him and smiles, just as soft and sweet as before, and Niall does his best to ignore the copy of Harry's voice in his head muttering _"Mr. Malik can make friends quite easily. It's his ability to keep them that is sadly lacking."_ Harry _has_ to be wrong, Niall's _sure_ of it.

"I was hoping I'd run into you here," Zayn says, coming around the crystal bowl and watching as Niall carefully pours himself a glass of punch with hands that only tremble a _little._

"That so?" he goes for casual, leaning against the edge of the table.

"I'm sorry that I didn't make it to the ball. I had business to attend to and, well," Zayn looks down at his feet, "I was worried that my being there would cause some sort of scene from Mr. Styles. I didn't want to do anything to embarrass your sisters." Niall really shouldn't be swooning when he's dangerously close to a massive crystal bowl of punch. "I was looking forward to dancing with you."

Niall hums, knowing that his warm cheeks probably contradict any further attempts at seeming nonchalant. Zayn's doing nothing to help undo the knot in his head, but maybe Niall doesn't mind that quite so much when Zayn's smiling at him like that. "Maybe next time," he says, not even sure when the next ball could be.

"I'd like that," Zayn reaches out, brushing over the cuff of Niall's sleeve. Niall stares down at the contact, waiting for there to be a spark like there was with Harry. There _should_ be one, since Niall both finds Zayn attractive _and_ likes him, but it's slight. It doesn't make his breath catch the same way.

"Take a walk with me?" he offers, hoping that more time together will force something more to happen. He wouldn't be opposed to trying for an actual kiss, for example, rather than that brief brush of Zayn's lips.

"Of course. I still barely know anyone here."

"Well, I know almost everyone. Come on, I'll point out the town's dirty secrets," Zayn laughs, motioning for Niall to lead the way.

///

"Tell me I'm not being a fool."

"You're not being a fool," Niall says dutifully, glancing up at Sophia standing in the doorway of the study. He'd come in here earlier to read for a while, taking a page out of his father's book to get a moment's distraction from the manic energy of the house.

The Millers have been his family's friends since they arrived in England. Willie's been a business partner for his father for about as long, taking care of things in London since his father refuses to go, and his wife Laura helped sponsor Sophia's brief debut in London. They're practically family at this point, only family that he sees no more than three times a year usually. It wasn't until they were coming back from Holly and Greg's wedding and listening to Laura chat about some wedding in Town that _they'd_ attended that Niall had come up with what was (to him) a brilliant plan.

Sophia had taken more convincing to agree to the brilliance of it, her going back to London with the Millers to try and run into Liam and take charge of the matter, and clearly, she's still not fully convinced. Sophia opens her mouth and then shuts it again, pacing the length of the study. "Soph, come on, what's the worst that could happen?"

"I see Mr. Payne again and he's not happy to see me? He's offended that I didn't get the point and realize that I was misinterpreting his kindness? I run into Mr. Styles or Mr. Tomlinson and _they're_ unhappy to see me on Mr. Payne's behalf?" now he's starting to see why her hair's down for once. If she had it up in a bun, he's sure it would be half-undone at this point.

"None of that is going to happen. He's going to see you and be dumbstruck by your beauty and grace all over again and decide that he never wants to part from you from that day on."

"You don't _know_ that."

"Neither do you, so I don't see the point in doing all this hand-wringing. It's not like you're traveling to the ends of the world for this, right? At worst, you get a lovely trip to London with expenses paid by the Millers," Sophia doesn't stop pacing, the sound of her shoes clicking on the floor more like an echo of her heartbeat. Niall marks his place in his book and stands, stopping her in her tracks and tugging her into his arms, "Think of it as a vacation, sis. You're simply getting out of Congleton and mingling with all the fancy society people for a few weeks and could _potentially_ run into your Mr. Payne. It's not like you're going to sit outside his front door for hours until he comes to see you."

"I don't even know where he lives, so that would be difficult," Sophia says directly into his shirt.

"Exactly. So just try to think of it as a happy coincidence if you run into him rather than something you're expressly aiming to achieve, petal. Because I _guarantee_ that he will not be unhappy to see you if your paths cross."

"Mr. Styles and Mr. Tomlinson—"

"We don't know if either of those tossers are even _in_ London. But if either of them _are_ and they give you any trouble, you're to send me an express straightaway so I can come beat some sense and manners into them," his twin warbles out a half-laugh, "It'll be alright, Soph. It really will."

"Will you all be alright without me here?"

He shrugs, "You'll have to ask someone else that. Holly invited me to go to Sandbach to stay with her and her _new husband_ for a while. I'll probably be leaving within the week. We can both spend all our time away worrying if the house will break down without us." He nudges her head up to tweak her nose, "But, if you start to worry too much when you're in London, think of all the ways I'll be suffering in the same house as Greg for days on end. Oh—and the mysterious Lord Cowell since I'm sure to meet him after all this time. Feel like the man's family at this point, since we've heard his opinion on everything aside from how to use the toilet. If he gives me advice on that, I'll make sure to inform you straight away. Perhaps there’s a lordly way to piss that simpletons like us have never heard about." Her laugh gets brighter, fuller, the sound that he's been waiting for.

"I'm sure it won't be quite that bad, Nialler," she wipes her cheeks, "Forgive me, I'm just—just nervous."

"I know you are, sis, but it will be alright. If any of us could survive in London, it's you. God knows I'd use the wrong fork at dinner or not bow low enough to someone and get kicked out of town entirely. I'll miss you though," if he didn't dislike London _and_ have this invitation to see Holly, he'd probably be going with her just for his own peace of mind.

"I'll miss you too. I suppose we'll get to see if our twin trouble senses can work over that long of a distance," she tucks her head back under his chin. He rocks her in his arms, waiting to let her breathing settle more before he lets go.

"You'll be fine, I'll be fine, the house will hopefully not crumble in our absence. Enjoy London," she hums as he kisses her forehead, breathing in deep just so he remembers the way she smells while they're apart, "Now go finish packing, since I know you stopped halfway through when you started thinking too hard. The last thing I want is for you to end up in London with no drawers or something." She hits him upside the head (as he expected) and then kisses his cheek before leaving the room.

He's just settling back on the sofa, feet propped up on the end because his mother's not here to yell at him, when someone knocks on the door to the study. "There you are," he's not expecting Laura to slip into the room, upturned nose scrunched with her smile.

"You were looking for me?"

She perches on the arm of the sofa, artfully arranging her skirt, "I was. I noticed at the wedding that you were talking to Mr. Malik."

That's enough to make Niall sit up, scooting to the end of the sofa so he can look at Laura. She's still smiling, but there's caution in her dark eyes, just like Sophia when she was trying to warn him against believing Zayn so blindly. Maybe that's why he can't help but get defensive, "And what if I was?"

"How long have you known Mr. Malik?"

"A few weeks at most. Why?"

She rolls her head on her neck, reaching up to fiddle with the emerald pendant of her pearl necklace. "We live near Holmes Chapel, you know. I won't pretend to know the details, as everything was kept quiet by the family, but I know that _something_ happened between him and the Styles."

"He _told_ me what happened. How they shut him out."

Her thin eyebrows rise up her forehead, "That is not the impression I’ve gotten, to be perfectly honest with you."

"Well," Niall crosses his arms over his chest, well aware that it makes him look like a petulant child, "if your impression was at all formed on behalf of the _Styles,_ no wonder it doesn't match."

Unlike his mother, Laura's always found Niall's stubbornness amusing. Even now, it looks like she's fighting the urge to smile wider. "Perhaps so. But I didn't come in here to debate the case like we're in court. I merely wanted to tell you to be cautious. I won't pretend to understand his motivations but remember that everyone is always eager to present the best version of themselves to strangers."

It would be even more childish to pout, Niall knows that, so he bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from doing it. "Tell that to _Harry_ Styles then," he mumbles, staring at the worn cover of the novel he's reading, the leather peeling at the edges.

"I wasn't aware that you'd met Mr. Styles. I haven't seen him in quite some time but from what I can remember, he was always quite amiable."

"Maybe I'm just special then, because I'm fairly sure he can't stand me."

"It's not like you to care about that sort of thing," Laura says curiously.

"I _don't_ care," he rasps, too quickly to be calm, and picks more furiously at a stray thread in the book's binding, "I'll likely never see the man again, so it doesn't matter what he thinks of me." It doesn't matter, truly, and as soon as he stops dreaming about green eyes and thick curls, he'll be all the better for it. He doubts Harry's thinking about him anyway, so there's no reason why _Niall_ should keep letting the older man haunt all his dreams.

"Alright then," he thinks it would be better if Laura just told him he was lying, but the barely concealed chuckle in her voice is doing that for her.

"Take care of Sophia, will you? Make sure she enjoys London and doesn't spend the whole time worrying about everything."

"Of course," Laura reaches over to ruffle his hair, "Don't you worry about her." Niall will, of course, because it's _Sophia_ but at least he trusts Laura and Willie to care for her.

There's no point in trying to return to his book even after Laura leaves. It feels like it would be tempting fate, begging for someone else to come interrupt him, and he thinks he understands why his father shuts the door to his study sometimes. Instead, Niall drops the book and stretches out on the sofa again, his arm over his eyes to block out the sunlight. Maybe going to visit Holly will be good for him, get him out of Congleton and the memories of the past few months. He'll come back with a clear mind and go back to living his life.

///

Niall's never been to Sandbach. He'd had no reason to, as it's not like his family was ever going to come out here and visit Greg. If Niall had his way, and his best friend hadn't _married_ Greg, he doubts he ever would've come either. The town's pretty, probably a little bigger than Congleton if Niall had to guess. Hopefully, he can convince Holly to take him exploring without needing Greg to come along. The less time Niall can spend in Greg's company during this month-long visit, the better. He took the mail coach in, sitting on the bench with the coachman just so he didn't have to sit in the cramped cabin. At least Sophia got better transportation with the Millers. He doubts that she's got a sore arse right now.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in!" Holly teases from the doorway of the small brick cottage. She leans against the doorframe, arms crossed and smile wide, as Niall makes his way up the small stone path. There's grass breaking through the spots between the smooth, flat rocks and he wonders if that's what Holly's doing here. Pushing life and color back into something cold and dead. If anyone could do it, it would be her. 

"Oi, I haven't traveled on a bloody mail coach for this long just to be greeted like this," he replies, dropping his bag on the doorstep before sweeping Holly into his arms, "Missed you, Holls."

"I've missed you too, Ni. I'm so glad you're here. It's good to see a friendly face," Niall sets her back on the ground, watching as she fixes the neckline of her simple dress. It's nicer than the ones she used to wear, so at least Greg's not penny pinching too much.

"You look well. I hope that married life is being good to you so far?" he follows her into the cottage, picking his bag up.

Holly nods, glancing back over her shoulder, "It is, actually. I'm enjoying being the mistress of my own house. My husband is agreeable, and our ward is pleasant company."

Right, Niall had almost forgotten about Greg's ward, his would-be fiancée. "Hopefully, she wasn't too let down by me turning down the engagement?" he asks, keeping his voice low since he doesn't know who else is home.

Holly giggles, nudging a plain door open and motioning him into a small but cozy bedroom, "She's young and barely knows you. It's already in the past for her, I think. She's been flirting with a boy in the village, someone her age rather than an old man like you."

"You jest, but my bones are killing me after that mail coach," he grumbles, rubbing his back as he puts his bag on the ground.

"Poor baby," Holly says, not sounding the least bit sympathetic, "However shall you cope?"

"Refreshments would help."

She rolls her eyes, "Of course they would. Luckily for you, I've been preparing for your bottomless pit of a stomach, Horan."

"Love you too, darling," he says with the most innocent smile he can manage.

As they drink tea in the parlor, sat on opposite sides of a plain round table while Niall devours a plate of sandwiches, they try to catch up on each other's lives. Holly reassures Niall that she finds Greg pleasant enough. "Well, you see, he adores his garden in the back yard and spends a lot of his time there. And then he likes to sit with Miss Steinfeld in the front parlor to be able to see if Lord Cowell and his daughter go driving past. With his duties as a clergyman on top of all that, there are days when I don't think our paths cross at all. Besides, all men have _similar_ vices that can assist when they get into a bad mood," she says with a knowing wink. Niall would really prefer _not_ to think about his best friend sharing a bed with Greg, so he swiftly changes topic to tell her about the small number of new events in Congleton. He's in the middle of updating her on the blossoming scandal between one of the boys at the general store and a barmaid when the front door opens.

"Ah! My cousin has finally arrived!" Greg booms as he removes his hat. Miss Steinfeld is with him, the picture of innocence in a light green dress and matching bonnet. Niall stands, bowing to the younger woman because he _is_ a gentleman. Her curtsy is perfectly polite and there's nothing on her face to contradict Holly's claim that she wasn't wounded by Niall's rejection. Good, because that would've made his stay even more awkward. He's set to be here for nearly a month, after all. "How do you find Sandbach?" Greg asks as Holly helps him remove his coat.

"Haven't seen much of it yet, but it seems like a lovely place," Niall takes another bite of his sandwich after sitting down.

Greg dusts off his shoulders and then sits down next to Holly. "It's a lovely town, greatly boosted by the patronage of Lord Cowell. His endless support of the villagers, his diligent advice," Niall's mind drifts, having heard more than enough on the subject of _Lord Cowell_ when Greg visited Little Moreton. He's only brought back when he hears something about dinner with Lord Cowell. "—requires a formal outfit for any visit to Lyme Park, but especially formal meals, so I hope that you brought your best clothes, cousin," Holly's returned to her embroidery, smiling down at her hoop.

"Er, I think I've bought something suitable," Niall says. He'd only brought a handful of clothes, knowing that he'd be able to get them washed as needed. He knows he didn't bring his _best_ jacket, but he brought his _second_ best. And he highly doubts that Greg's been all that flattering in his descriptions of Niall either, so Lord Cowell is probably expecting some poorly dressed Irish heathen. He can deliver on that promise, at least.

"Good, good. It is a great honor, being invited to dinner at Lyme, and I hope that you'll treat it as such." Niall pastes an insincere smile on his face before stuffing the rest of his sandwich in his mouth.

///

Sophia had convinced herself that the ball tonight wouldn't be that different from anything held in Congleton, especially the ball held at Gawsworth before Liam left. But everything and everyone here is so _splendid,_ glittering jewels and shimmering lace and velvet so smooth it almost looks liquid in the light. And all the guests seem to thrive in the air of extravagance even as Sophia feels like she's choking on it. She can't remember the last time she went to a ball—or _anywhere_ , really—without at least one of her siblings with her. She misses them more than she ever could've imagined now, feeling so out of place without any of her usual crutches to lean on. She doesn't have Julia and Perrie to monitor or Ashlyn to coax out of the corner. She doesn't have Niall there to steady her, his easy laugh and innate ability to make everything feel _fine_ combatting her increasing anxiety _._

She takes another nervous sip of her punch, trying to calm her churning stomach. Laura had reassured her that her dress (the best she owned) would work fine. Sophia knows she's not the most beautifully dressed woman in the elegant ballroom by a long shot, but she also doesn't feel entirely out of place in terms of her outfit. Just out of place in terms of her personality, the way her shyness leaves her shrinking against the wall rather than trying to make new friends. She had been hoping that she'd see Liam within a few minutes of her arrival, a romantic scene where he'd see her from across the room and their eyes would meet and they wouldn't even need to say anything to each other. They would just _know._

But that didn't happen, and she lost Laura to a familiar friend and Willie to the card room. She's danced with a few men, strangers with nice faces whose names she already doesn't remember, but she hasn't seen _Liam._ He was _supposed_ to be here; Willie had said he'd heard for a fact that Liam would be escorting his younger sisters. If Niall were here, he'd be tearing through the ballroom, dragging Liam over by the ear and making them dance.

She's debating just asking Laura if she can leave, maybe try pretending that she has a headache and isn't just feeling quite sorry for herself, when the dancers in the center of the ballroom rearrange themselves at the start of the song and she sees Liam. He doesn't see her though, and it doesn't take long for her to understand why. He's leading a gorgeous brunette into the line of dancers, casting the same smile that had charmed Sophia from the start at her. Sophia knows that it's not one of his sisters, not with the way the woman's dressed.

Danielle always teases her about how she must've let Niall have all the fire in the womb, traded it off by stealing all the manners and dignity, but it's not true. Niall is more open than she is, neither of them would deny it, but Niall also knows how passionate Sophia can get when she wants to be. But if Niall has spent years perfecting his ability to let judgement roll off his shoulders, Sophia has spent it perfecting her ability to keep a straight face. It's one of the only things that's gotten her through life, through year after year spent without marriage prospects, through lecture after lecture on her failings from her mother.

It's a matter of taking a deep breath, letting it out inch by inch and counting backwards until it feels like her lungs have gone flat in her chest. She doesn't close her eyes, lest she look even stranger standing alone, but she tries her best to picture their home in Mullingar. It hasn't been home in years, she supposes, but it's still the place she always thinks back to when she wants to find inner peace. She smells the Irish wind, so much brighter than England. The expanse of hills stretching as far as the eye can see, dotted with cows and old fences that she and Niall would balance on when they went exploring. The crabapple tree in their old back yard that she and Niall climbed (and fell out of) countless times.

She lets herself drown in the images, feeling her expression flatten into a pleasant mask, betraying none of the agony in her chest. Liam's dancing with the woman now, laughing at something she's said. Sophia _missed_ his smile, the way it lights up his whole face and leaves her heart frantic in her chest. She's seen enough courtships to know that the woman is a master of the art. It's in the tilt of her head, coquettish and deceptively simple, the way she turns at the hips a little harder than necessary just to make her crimson dress swish around her legs. Sophia's never been able to master like that, her anxieties (and, according to Niall, common sense) getting in the way of any attempt to be that flirtatious, and it means she almost can't blame Liam for looking so enthralled by it.

"Now what on Earth brings you here, Miss Horan?" Sophia jolts, turning to see the reedy form of Mr. Tomlinson standing next to her, dressed in a fine black suit with his hair only slightly untidy. She likes Mr. Tomlinson—well, more than Mr. Styles at least, because Mr. Tomlinson actually talks to her—but she always gets the impression that he's trying to dig through her head and pick out all her secrets, like the angles in his face are daggers meant to cut right through defenses. "Don't mean it as an insult, by the way. Just surprise. I thought your family never came to London," he adds.

"We don't, not usually. But we have family friends, the Millers, who invited me to join them here for a few weeks. They got an invitation tonight. I will admit that it is quite nice to see another friendly face though! I don’t really know anyone else here," she tries, hoping that her smile looks sincere enough.

"None of your siblings are here?"

She shakes her head, "No, it's just me. My other sisters are at home and my brother is visiting a recently married friend."

As much as she tries to stop herself, she sees Liam out of the corner of her eye again, looking so _dashing_ as he twirls the brunette in a slow circle and turns her head to get a better look. " _Oh_ ," Mr. Tomlinson says, "please tell me you didn't come all this way for Liam."

"I—no, of course not," she tears her eyes away from Liam, hoping that looking at Mr. Tomlinson will make her lie even the slightest bit more believable. Judging by his expression, it doesn’t work.

"Listen, love, I could stand to watch your brother make a fool of himself because he’d own it afterwards, but not you. You're too sweet for that," he steps a little closer, lowering his voice until it's just barely audible over the music, "Let me tell you now then: a girl like you isn't built for this world."

Sophia swallows, already feeling light-headed, "I’m afraid I don't understand your meaning."

"Places and people like this eat sweet, kind-hearted girls like you for a morning snack. I've got six sisters back in Doncaster and if I had my way, none of them would ever see London. They're too good for it and so are you," Sophia wishes that she could be offended, wishes that she could slap Mr. Tomlinson and storm off, but she's heard him slinging insults and snide comments. There's nothing in his voice but honesty right now, compassion and maybe even pity. "The woman Liam's dancing with, Miss Cole? She's been husband hunting for a while now. Has a massive dowry and is aiming for a husband to match but is a mite _poor_ when it comes to kindness. She'd tear you down and leave you behind without even blinking," Mr. Tomlinson reaches out and gently pats her cheek, "I like you, Miss Horan. And maybe if we'd stayed in your little town, things could've been different. But London's a different world and you—I don’t think you're up for trying to win Liam here."

"O-oh," she whispers, now unable to look away from him. She's not quite sure she's ever heard someone so gently crush her dreams. There’s a bubbling fire at that back of her mind that feels like Niall getting offended on her behalf. Maybe it’s a good thing that he’s not here right now, as she thinks he might call Mr. Tomlinson out over that comment. "Well then, I—well," she's doesn’t know what else to say, "P-perhaps I should leave. I can find the Millers, I—"

"Please," Mr. Tomlinson holds out his arm, "allow me to escort you. I have the distinct feeling that your brother would hunt me down and murder me if he knew I'd left you to your own devices when you were upset."

"I'm not upset," she says immediately.

"'ve got six sisters, love," he repeats as they start walking along the edge of the ballroom, "Master in reading women, I am."

"Oh," her nervous laugh is a little too high, "Yes, I'd reckon you're quite the expert in it then. Niall says the same thing about himself sometimes, so it must be a learned skill of only brothers." He winks at her, guiding her easily around a rotund drunk man sloshing wine as he tries to stay standing. "Is Mr. Styles here as well?" Sophia asks just to try and change the subject.

Mr. Tomlinson hums, his eyebrow raised, "Not tonight, no. He is in town though. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious. He made quite the impression on Niall," Sophia's not entirely sure that it's all negative either. For as much as Niall's grumbled about how much he dislikes Mr. Styles, he certainly seemed to blush whenever he looked at him. Just the fact that Mr. Styles got that deep under Niall's skin, that Niall _cared_ in any way about what Mr. Styles thought of him, says something to Sophia whether her twin would admit to it or not.

Mr. Tomlinson's mouth twists, torn between a smirk and a grimace, "Your brother made _quite_ the impression on him too." She's not sure what that's supposed to mean but she doesn't get a chance to ask. She sees Laura at the edge of a group of ladies, fluttering her fan with all the grace and dignity that Sophia's mother has never managed.

"There's Mrs. Miller," Sophia says, pointing to Laura.

"Good, I've done my duty then. I truly wish you all the best, Miss Horan. I'm not sure if I'll ever be in Congleton again, but perhaps we'll see each other somewhere else one day," he says as he bows

"I would enjoy that," she curtsies, wobbling just a little, and then leaves him to head for Laura's side. The song ends, reminding her of why she's trying to leave. Glancing over her shoulder, she sees Mr. Tomlinson fade into the crowd, smooth as a ghost. She only gets a moment to do her best at looking ill as she claims her headache to Laura.

She makes it all the way back to the Miller’s house and through a hot bath without breaking. It's only as she's sitting down at the small writing desk in the corner of the guest bedroom, quill in hand and Niall's name written at the top of the first page of her letter, that the tears finally start trickling down her cheeks.

///

"If I leave for London now and ride through the night, I could get there tomorrow morning."

"Don't be ridiculous, you're not riding to London."

"I know _Mr. Tomlinson_ doesn't wake up early. He'll never see it coming. I’ll smother him before he can even wake up."

"You're not _smothering_ anyone, Niall, good lord," Holly finishes tying his cravat for him. Niall had given up on getting dressed shortly after a maid had delivered the tear-stained letter from Sophia detailing her discussion with Louis, the way he'd told her that _that world_ wasn't for her and she shouldn't fight for Liam. Niall had read it over twice and then promptly began plotting murder rather than finish getting ready to go to Lyme Park. It had taken Holly coming in and seeing him pacing the room half-dressed to finish the job. "Sophia even _said_ she wasn't offended by what he said."

"Sophia's too nice," Niall replies, "I have to be mean for her. So no matter what she says she feels, I'm going to throttle him anyway."

"You're not going to throttle him. You're going to pull yourself together and be charming and funny at Lyme Park and that’s that," Niall sucks in a deep breath to keep his rant going but ends up grunting when Holly slaps her hand over his mouth, "I know you're upset. But you can't fix every problem for your sister, Niall. She's an adult, she can handle things on her own."

"She's my _sister,_ my _twin,"_ Niall says into Holly's soft palm.

"And she's a strong woman who knows how to steel her spine and handle setbacks," he winces at the bitter taste of blood in his mouth when he bites his tongue. Sophia _is_ strong, he _knows_ that all too well, but she's also good at hiding her hurt. The ache in his stomach is enough to make him want to just start walking to London now. Content that Niall's going to keep his mouth shut, Holly gently pulls her hand away and strokes his cheek, "I'll give you some paper when we get back and you can send her a response. If she's truly miserable, I'm sure she'll let you know and you can go from there."

Niall nods, a mulish scowl on his lips, and follows Holly down into the foyer. "Ah! Finally, we can leave," Greg's already dressed, his top hat perfectly straight on his head. Miss Steinfeld is waiting dutifully at his side, gloved hands clasped in front of her. Greg looks Niall over and then nods, "Yes, you'll do." Holly pinches Niall's side hard, the only thing preventing him from making a snide remark, and they file out of the house.

He broods on the whole walk to Lyme Park, taking advantage of the fact that Greg is monologuing about nothing and Holly is walking next to Miss Steinfeld, letting Niall trail behind them. He _knows_ Sophia is strong enough to handle the kind of set down she got from Louis—whether she was offended or not—but that does nothing to combat his desire to go protect her. Sophia's the _best_ woman he's ever known. If Liam can't or won't recognize that and wants some heiress instead, that will be his mistake and he’ll regret it with every breath for the rest of his life.

"Welcome to Lyme Park, cousin!" Greg says, bringing Niall's attention up from his boots. A massive, sprawling mansion stands in front of them, white stone and what seems like miles of glass windows reflecting the setting sun like a flawless mirror. Niall will admit that it's a beautiful sight, though he doesn't care at all about Greg's excited story about the number of chimneys the house has (because he’s a sane man with better things to care about). He fights the urge to fiddle with his cravat, knowing that he'll only get his hand slapped by Holly if he does, so he chews on his nail instead. He just can't make any glaring errors tonight, that's all. Easier said than done with his head in such an uproar.

They're welcome into Lyme Park by a skinny butler with a moustache and beard waxed and groomed to perfection, a contrast to the sparseness of the hair on his head. "Lord Cowell is awaiting your company in the orchid parlor," the man says crisply, turning on the heel of his perfectly polished shoe and leading them down a wide hallway.

"Orchid parlor?" Niall asks, feeling like his own footsteps are impossibly loud on the wood floor.

"The late Lady Cowell was an expert gardener who particularly enjoyed orchids. One of the two greenhouses at Lyme Park is solely dedicated to the cultivation of orchids in her memory," the butler explains. Niall's not sure he's ever seen an orchid in person, but if he mentions that, there’s no telling what Greg will do. Probably go apoplectic, demand that they take a detour to the greenhouse so Niall can get acquainted with the flower before meeting Lord Cowell lest he find a way to offend the man.

The orchid parlor turns out to be smaller than Niall expected based on the size of the house (though it’s still bigger than most of the rooms at Little Moreton). Chairs and two sofas are grouped in an open square at the center of the room, perfectly aligned with the edges of the massive Persian rug. A fire crackling in the marble fireplace on one side of the room casts a warm orange glow on everything, including the impressively large family portrait hanging above the mantle. "Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Collins. You're just on time," Niall looks up, tearing his eyes away from the floral pattern on the rug. An impeccably dressed man with short, salt and pepper hair, piercing blue eyes, and a strong, stubble-covered jaw is standing in front of the grandest chair in the room. This must be Lord Cowell, both because he's the only man in the room and because he's got that air of self-importance that Niall's always associated with _lords._

"My lord!" Greg bows so low, Niall's certain that his forehead almost touches the floor, "Thank you so much for inviting my family to dinner tonight. We are profoundly grateful and in awe of your kindness as always." Niall doesn't snort or roll his eyes, which he considers a victory for his self-control. "May I present to you my cousin, Mr. Niall Horan, visiting us from Congleton? He's a close friend of my dear wife. Cousin, this is Lord Simon Cowell."

Niall bows—not nearly as low as Greg since he _does_ have more self-respect than that. Lord Cowell hums, shrewd eyes raking over Niall, "Yes, I remember you mentioning that family to me. Irish, aren't you?"

"Er, yes, my lord."

"Hmm. How long have you lived here?"

"I’d say almost sixteen years, my lord."

"Pity the accent's stuck around for this long then." Niall's saved from having to find a polite response by Holly stepping forward and making some bland comment about the hedges by the drive. He ends up sitting next to Miss Steinfeld on one of the sofas, her hands clasped delicately in her lap and making his fidgeting feel even more blatant in comparison. He can't feign interest in the conversation, which is dominated by Lord Cowell talking while Greg vigorously agrees to everything the man says, and doesn't have the built-in excuse that Holly or Miss Steinfeld do of being women who should wait to be spoken to. Niall wonders how Holly can stand it, really, since he's never known her to have patience for this kind of small talk.

To keep his mind occupied, he thinks about what _he_ would do if he had this kind of money at his disposal. He'd probably fully restore Little Moreton to its former glory, fix the broken beams and uneven boards in the floor. Maybe even add an extension onto the house to have a real music room, filled with brand new instruments that he and Ashlyn could spend hours playing. He’d clean all the windows to let the sun in and grease the hinges so they can open for the breeze in the summertime too. He’d bring the house back to _life_ rather than let it keep falling apart bit by bit, something new breaking every time they’ve managed to fix something else. Sure, it’s given Niall a fair bit of experience in home repair, but the house deserves better.

He doesn't really see the point in decorating like Lord Cowell, all gold and silver as if to prove the depth of his pockets when anyone could see his wealth automatically just by stepping foot on the property. Niall would rather have a house that feels like a _home_ , both to him and visitors alike, than just something meant to impress. The sofa he's sitting on is made plush velvet and perfectly lacquered wooden arms and legs but it's also somehow less comfortable than the hard, wobbly church pews back in Congleton because it's meant to _look_ nice, not _feel_ nice.

Niall supposes that that concept applies to a chunk of the rich people he's met and then stops himself from going further down that road because it's bound to lead to a man whose memory he's been trying to blot out. He swallows, forcing himself to listen to the thin drone of Lord Cowell's voice. And that's a good thing, since the man turns to glance at Niall, "Mr. Collins says you have four sisters, Mr. Horan."

"Yes, my lord. I have a twin sister and then three sisters after that."

"And neither you _or_ your twin are yet married?"

Niall shifts on the uncomfortable seat, his back protesting his attempts to keep sitting up straight, "No, my lord."

"Are you not in a rush to be wed so your younger sisters can come out?"

Holly's mouth is hidden behind her hand, but Niall knows she's smiling from the light in her eyes. "No, my lord. They're all out already and welcome to court and marry how they like." Greg's gone pale, eyes flickering nervously from Niall to Lord Cowell, who's staring Niall down.

"You're telling me that _all_ of your sisters are out at once?" Niall nods, twiddling his thumbs, "That's very strange. Very strange indeed. How young is your youngest sister?"

"Barely sixteen, my lord," well, there's _some_ pleasure to be had in watching the shock flitter across Lord Cowell's rugged face. Niall decides to nudge it a little further, "But quite frankly, my lord, I would think it unfair to force them _all_ to stay home until my twin and I are married. Congleton is a small town, after all, so they might be waiting a while in that case. I don’t see any reason why they should be wasting their youth waiting around for possibly nothing. I’m not even sure I’ll ever marry at all."

Greg wheezes, Holly stifles a snort in the back of her hand, and Miss Steinfeld lets out something that is either a muffled giggle or a gasp of surprise. Niall will choose to think it's the former just because he'd like to believe that the girl has more spark hidden underneath all those ruffles. "You're quite free with your opinions, aren't you, Horan?" Simon’s eyes narrow again, trailing over Niall on the sofa. There's a little version of Sophia in Niall’s head, hands on her hips as she cautions him not to _purposefully_ antagonize Lord Cowell. He's sure that down in London, the back of her neck is prickling with the sense that he's being foolish.

But she's not here and if Niall doesn't push the boundaries a _little,_ he'll lose his mind tonight.

Niall tries to be convincingly penitent, "I'm afraid I am, my lord. It's a trait that runs in my family. Must be the Irish blood." Lord Cowell's mouth twists, a half-sneer that only makes Niall's blood boil higher, but he's saved from further criticizing by Greg jumping in to ask for advice on Miss Steinfeld.

Holly lowers her hand just enough to mouth _"you're the worst!"_ at him. Niall winks back.

///

Maybe Miss Steinfeld's not _that_ bad. Niall still would've rather become a monk than marry her, but a week into his stay at Sandbach, she'd asked him to teach her how to play the fiddle using an old violin Greg bought her and, for lack of other things to do to keep himself occupied, he'd agreed. She's got a talent for music, it turns out, and Niall's enjoying teaching her how to play almost as much as he enjoys knowing that after he's gone, she'll be able to irritate Greg with traditional Irish fiddling. After two weeks, she's gotten rather good at it.

"Who taught you to play?" she asks as he untucks the fiddle from below his chin.

"My father taught me the basics and then I taught myself from there. 've got a whole box of sheet music for Irish songs back at Little Moreton and I've memorized most of them," he hands the instrument over, watching as she carefully puts it in place and eases out the first note. As she does _not_ have a large repertoire of Irish sheet music here and Niall can only do so much humming to teach her notes, they've been using music from her normal pianoforte lessons and speeding it up until it sounds appropriately bouncy.

"Lord Cowell says women should only learn the pianoforte, but there are so many instruments out there."

"Well, Lord Cowell can believe that all he wants, but I don't see why women can't learn what they like. My sister Ashlyn can play everything I can and she's better at some instruments too," he taps his toe against the leg of the bench she's perched on to help her keep time, following along in his head so he knows when to turn the pages for her.

"It must be nice to have siblings," she blows a strand of hair out of her face without losing the rhythm. If she and Ashlyn weren't equally shy, maybe they would've gotten along better during Greg and Miss Steinfeld's stay at Little Moreton.

"Depends on the day. I love my siblings, but I won't pretend that they don't get on my nerves sometimes. Hard to get peace and quiet when you've got four other people all vying for attention, especially when they're all girls."

"Yes, I could see that. Some of them are, um, quite… _vivacious,"_ her dark eyes flick over to his only once before she's looking back at the sheet music.

"A diplomatic word choice there," Niall says with a chuckle, turning the page for her, "Well, you're likely to see them again at some point, at least if you all ever make any trips back to Congleton."

"I should like that. And it will be nice to visit them as friends and not as sisters-in-law. No offense meant."

"Absolutely none taken," on the contrary, Niall thinks he just lost a weight on his shoulders he'd thought didn't exist, "You're a sensible girl. You'll make someone a lovely bride one day." Her smile is grateful, reminds him a little bit of Sophia's when they were teenagers and Niall would reassure her that she was beautiful, she was _worthy_ of being wanted. Back when Niall was having fun with people in the village because he _could,_ losing his virginity to Amelia at the tavern and then again (in an entirely different way) to Breslin a year later, while she had to sit at home and dwell in that all important female _chastity._ It's unfair, he's always thought that, and maybe he believes it a little more lately. He's had his chances to have his heart broken. This is Sophia's first time, more acute than maybe any of his experiences, and he's not there to help her through it like she did for him.

He hasn't gotten a reply to his letter yet and, if not for Holly telling him to give it another week, he'd already have left for London. At the very least, that would've prevented him from more dinners with Lord Cowell. Now that he’s dealt with the man in person, all the tidbits of Lord Cowell’s advice Greg had been parroting back in Congleton anymore feel quite miniscule. The man's got a recommendation for _everything._ He'd caught Niall retying one of his boots after he'd stepped on the lace and proceeded to give an impassioned speech on his preferred style of knots. Niall's exhausted by it all and has told Holly on a near daily basis that she's never allowed to tease him about _his_ opinions ever again. He knows he’d joked with Sophia about Lord Cowell likely having an opinion on how to use the toilet, but now he’s almost living in fear of the possibility that he’ll excuse himself at Lyme Park and earn a lecture upon his return.

"Getting better by the day," Holly says when she pokes her head into the room at the end of their makeshift lesson, "Soon, I'll be able to fill my Niall-related nostalgia by getting you to play the fiddle for me."

"Aw, Holls, you really _do_ miss me," he teases, fluttering his eyelashes at her.

"I miss your ability to fill any space with noise, mostly," she replies with the perfect mirror to his innocent smile.

"Just for that, Miss Steinfeld, I forbid you to ever play for her."

Greg's voice breaks through the peace, "Wife? Wife!" Holly's barely turned to investigate the hall when he appears behind her, ruddy-faced and panting, his thin hair sticking to his forehead like damp hay, "We are summoned to Lyme Park!"

"Weren't we already supposed to be going there for dinner?" Niall distinctly remembers that being discussed this morning because he'd told himself to factor in an afternoon walk before they left just to get a little peace.

"Lord Cowell informs me that there will be guests! His nephew Mr. Styles will be there as well as Mr. Styles' close friend, Mr. Grimshaw," Greg keeps talking but Niall's got an odd ringing in his ears drowning everything else out. He swallows, glancing down at his hands. He stuffs them between his thighs to hide the way they're trembling. There's _no reason_ that he needs to be nervous at all about this. He refuses to let it set him back on his journey towards forgetting about Harry Styles entirely.

///

Harry doubts he could've planned it better if he'd tried. When he and Nick had decided to stop by Lyme Park on their way to Capesthorne, he never would've thought that Niall would be only a mile or two away, staying with the clergyman and his new wife. It's almost too convenient, really, like some higher power recognized the struggle Harry’s undergone over the last few months and decided to give him this as a free victory.

As soon as he'd stopped losing sleep trying to _not_ care about Niall Horan and then coming to terms with the fact that he _loves_ Niall, he'd started losing it again over the knowledge that he was going to have to go _back_ to Congleton to propose to the man. He'd rather hoped that he'd be able to avoid that, as if he could just snatch Niall from his family home and head directly to Capesthorne forevermore. As much as he likes the idea of marrying Niall, he still abhors the fact that it's going to include marrying into that _family._ He supposes that there's something ironic in that, how happy he was to have convinced Liam that Sophia Horan wasn't worth it for her family only for Harry to fall for her twin brother. But that's a bridge he'll begrudgingly cross when he gets to it, after Niall's said yes and it's become something unavoidable like loving Niall has turned out to be. Harry's quite certain that he can handle the rest of the Horans better than Liam could anyway.

"How long are you planning on keeping us here?" Nick asks, leaning against the edge of the piano Harry's tinkering away on, "I thought you weren't close with your uncle."

"I'm not. But we'll be here for a few days, perhaps," as long as it takes for Harry to get a moment alone with Niall to propose. He thinks it should be simple enough. He's positive that Niall's just as attracted to him as he is and Niall's sensible. Surely, he'll be just as flattered by Harry's profession of love as he is by the fact that Harry's proposing to someone like him at all. And by the time they're married, Harry thinks he'll have come to terms with his heart's choice. Niall's normally the kind of man he'd settle for just a romp or two in bed with—not well off, not all that cultured, but practically guaranteed to be a fun time. Niall's certainly been on his _mind_ at night when Harry's alone in bed with his hand on his cock and Niall's name on his lips. His life would be a _lot_ easier if the only thing he wanted from Niall was a night in bed, if the only thing he _felt_ for Niall was this all-consuming desire.

But Niall is (unfortunately) more than that. Harry doesn't miss Congleton at all, but he misses hearing Niall's easy laughter when their paths crossed in town. He misses eavesdropping on Niall telling boring stories about things like country parties to Liam at Gawsworth, always surprised at how Niall could make them sound so riveting, or listening to Niall playing the piano one room over and wishing that he had to guts to go in and play something with him. And it's not _just_ that he wants to kiss Niall senseless. He’s increasingly obsessed with the fact that he doesn't want anyone _else_ to do it either (especially not someone like _Zayn)._ He wants it to be him, _only_ him. Harry's not sure he's ever felt this _possessive_ over someone before and still hasn’t figured out how to reconcile his common sense and rationality with this almost _feral_ need in his chest to know that Niall is _his._ It's an unsettling feeling, almost as unsettling as being in love is, and he looks forward to seeing both through. When they're married, Niall will be _his_ and they can figure out the whole love bit together. 

"You aren't worried that your uncle's going to knock you out and you'll wake up at the altar with your cousin?" 

"Hardly. I think my mother is one of the only people that Simon's afraid of, and she would be absolutely _livid_ if I got married without her involvement." 

"What a pity. She's a lovely girl," Harry glances up at the portrait of his cousin Caroline on the wall, blonde and demure and bashful. She's always been sickly, though Harry's never been sure if that was at all legitimate or if any of it stemmed from her father’s constant overbearing demands.

"She is lovely, but not for me. I need someone with a little more…life," even before Harry met Niall, he wasn't interested in Caroline. She's sweet and gentle and entirely too meek for his liking. But he didn't realize just how much he _wanted_ someone who would push him, argue with him over any odd thing, until Niall strutted into Gawsworth like the king of mud. Caroline would never slide down a bannister, for example.

Harry did it when he'd gotten back to his London house, trying it for the first time since he was a child, and the rush was still there. He also nearly fell off the end, but nobody was there to see it at least. And it was enough to fantasize about what would’ve happened if Niall were there, to dream of his bright laugh and wonder if maybe he’d kiss the place where Harry’s knee had slammed into the pillar at the end of the bannister. 

"You know, I've been getting the feeling lately that there's something you're not telling me about. A twinkle in your eye, maybe."

"Haven't a clue what you mean," it's not that Harry doesn't trust Nick. He's known the older man for almost a decade now; Nick knows him (quite literally) inside and out. But Nick might make him _question_ himself, and Harry doesn't think that he could handle that right now. He’s barely dissected his own wants and feelings as it is; he doesn’t need someone else trying to poke holes in the flimsy bits of his logic.

"Says the man not hiding anything, of course." Harry keeps his eyes on the keys, playing one of his sister's favorite songs from memory until a maid knocks on the door and announces that Lord Cowell's other guests have arrived and dinner will be served shortly. Harry leaps to his feet, stumbling over the piano bench and straightening his jacket. "You look fine," Nick says with a smirk as Harry pushes his hair back.

"Wasn't asking," though the confirmation does help anyway. Harry knows that _Nick_ knows just based off the way he rolls his eyes indulgently.

It's been a while since Harry's been at Lyme Park. His mother never got along that well with Simon and, after Harry's father died, had seemed glad to have less reasons to come visit. Harry tries to at least stop by at least once a year when he's going to or from London, but he usually tries to keep the visits short and sweet. His uncle loves nothing more than trying to snatch at any thread of control possible and Harry's quite set on avoiding that as much as he can. It's another reason why he'd never marry Caroline.

"Ah, yes, there they are," Simon says as Harry and Nick come down the grand staircase. Harry keeps his hand on the railing, smooth wood cold under his palm. It serves to both ground him and prevent him from falling over. "This is my nephew, Mr. Styles, and his friend, Mr. Grimshaw," Simon motions to Harry and Nick as they reach the bottom step and then turns to the group of four people in the foyer, "And this is Mr. and Mrs. Collins, their ward Miss Steinfeld, and their…cousin, Mr. Horan." 

Harry's thought of little else but Niall's face in the long months since he left Congleton, but those thoughts and memories truly don't do him justice. Niall's chewing on his nail at the rear of the group, eyes darting around the room. Harry had forgotten just how _blue_ his eyes are. Even from a distance, the color's so piercing. When their eyes meet, it's all Harry can see.

Nick elbows him in the side, nearly knocking Harry off his feet but bringing him out from his blue daze to hear Mr. Collins going on an extended speech about Congleton and the ball at Gawsworth. Harry hums, "I'm glad you enjoyed it. I shall have to tell Mr. Payne."

"Mr. Payne is missed in Congleton," Niall says, still staring at Harry, "Everyone's hoping he'll return soon from his business in London."

"I'm sure he'll return as soon as he's able," which Harry's hoping will be after Sophia Horan has married some other man with pockets deep enough to satisfy her greedy mother and a backbone strong enough to resist handing it all over. He doesn’t like the way Niall's mouth tightens at the corners, wants to reach out and smooth it away with his fingertips. He's quite looking forward to being able to touch Niall without restriction after they’re married. The memory of dancing at that ball, the tingles every time they touched, have taken root in the tangled forest of his desire for Niall.

"Shall we eat?" Simon says, motioning towards the dining room. Harry lingers, waiting until Niall's following the Collins to fall into step with him.

"I wasn't expecting to see you here," he murmurs.

Niall raises his eyebrows, "Surprised you've been thinking about me at all." Harry's still mulling that over by the time they reach the dining room. He'd rather sit next to Niall, but his uncle is eyeing him expectantly, so he sinks into the seat at Simon's right—conveniently across from Caroline. She shoots him a soft smile, perfectly ladylike and nothing compared to the teasing grin Niall is flashing at Mrs. Collins as she sits down across from him.

"You know," Nick says halfway through dinner, "I'm starting to put some things together."

"You are?" Harry's watching Niall, who’s already almost cleared his plate and is talking animatedly with Mrs. Collins. He's doing a perfect imitation of someone from Congleton, netting even a giggle from Miss Steinfeld, and Harry has to fight the urge to smile too.

"It's not like you're being subtle, friend. You can barely take your eyes off the lad," Harry feels his cheeks heat and looks back at his plate until he can get himself under control. "Not your usual type, is he?"

"Jealous?"

"Hardly," Nick replies wryly, "You just normally go for someone more…refined."

"Believe me, I'm aware. But he's…different." Niall's leaning towards Miss Steinfeld now, still grinning with his eyes on Mrs. Collins as he tells some story Harry wishes he could fully hear. Miss Steinfeld's pink all the way to her ears and Harry can't blame her, thinks he'd be the same if he had Niall leaning in like that to tell him a secret. Maybe Niall’s lips would brush against his ear, turning the whisper into a fleeting kiss. The thought’s enough to make Harry’s stomach liquify.

"Clearly. But…" here it comes, Nick bringing in that caution that Harry was hoping to avoid. He doesn't want to doubt himself, what he feels, not right now. Not when Niall feels within reach. "Keep your wits, will you? He's the kind of man someone like us beds, not weds."

"I'm aware of that too."

"But?"

"It's not that simple. He's _different_ ," Niall glances over at him, his gaze making everything else melt away, leaving Harry with nothing but blue eyes and butterflies in his stomach. But it's a fleeting moment, broken when Niall looks back at Mrs. Collins and Simon asks Harry how his sister's doing. Harry knows that Nick's still watching him curiously, so he takes Simon up on what would otherwise be an unwelcome distraction from his ability to watch Niall. It's easier to discuss Gemma, after all, than try to explain just what makes Niall _different._ He just _is,_ that's all Harry knows now, and he'll leave the explanations for a later date.

///

Unfortunately for Niall, Harry doesn't seem to have lost his penchant for staring. Niall thinks that every time he looked in Harry's direction during dinner, the older man was staring at him, jade eyes unknowable in that all too familiar way that Niall had hoped he'd forgotten. He's not sure what to make of the fact that Harry was _thinking_ about him after leaving Congleton either. Combined with the staring, Niall's painfully aware of the fact that his goal of forgetting about Harry has hit a rather large stumbling point. He thinks he’ll be mulling this over long past his return to Congleton.

"Mr. Horan, is it?" Mr. Grimshaw asks as the party spreads into the drawing room after dinner.

Niall nods, holding his hand out, "Niall's fine. Nice to meet you, Mr. Grimshaw."

Mr. Grimshaw has a bright smile, easy as the light in his eyes, and Niall's just a little less anxious even with Harry staring at him from across the room. "Please, call me Nick."

"Nick, then," well, it is nice to learn that Harry has other friends besides Liam that aren't sticks in the mud.

"Do you play pool?" Nick leads him over to the drinks table on the edge of the room, another thing needlessly gold and fancy, and pours them both glasses of brandy.

" _Do_ I? Yes, occasionally. _Can_ I is another story entirely," Niall doesn't like brandy much, but he'll take it. He could use something to take the edge off Harry's gazes. "Broke a window at the tavern back in Congleton once by hitting a ball too hard. My—er, my _friend_ said he'd never seen anything like it and that was the end of him trying to teach me how to play." Niall hadn't really minded at the time, especially since he and Breslin found _better_ things to do after leaving the tavern. He enjoyed being bent over the table in Little Moreton’s kitchen far more than trying to figure out the mechanics of pool.

Nick grins, "Well, now I _really_ want to see you play." He points to the pristine billiard table in a connected room, dark lacquered wood contrasting neatly with emerald felt.

As much as Niall thinks he'd enjoy potentially smashing something expensive for the fun of it, he doubts Lord Cowell would take it in stride like the tavern owner. He hesitates, rocking on his feet, "Jokes aside, I really am atrocious. You're likely going to wallop me with ease."

"Think I know the perfect man to assist you," Nick claps Niall on the shoulder and then turns towards Harry, "Styles, fancy a pool game?" Fuck. There's no point in praying that Harry isn't paying attention, not when Niall's _felt_ his stare like something tangible at the back of his neck the whole time he's been talking to Nick. Harry lopes over, pushing his hair back with one ringed hand.

"Pool?" Harry asks.

"I’m dying to play a round or two, but Horan claims he's right terrible at it."

"I _am,"_ Niall says. Harry raises an eyebrow, "I broke a window once. Shot a ball straight through it."

"How on _earth_ did you manage that?" Harry sounds _amused_ , so far from the derision Niall had been expecting that it leaves him dumbstruck. The corners of Harry’s mouth are curving just enough to make his dimples show up but not be a true grin. Niall's filled suddenly with the _need_ to see Harry smile, _truly_ smile, for him. Needs it so much that he feels like it’ll burst right out of him, rip him apart at the seams.

God, this is _not_ something he was prepared to deal with here.

"Never mind how he managed it, right? Maybe he'll be able to repeat it tonight. What matters is that you can teach him how to play. The two of you can be a team against me," Nick says, dusting off the shoulders of his brushed velvet jacket.

"That confident, are you?" Niall manages to add.

"I taught Styles everything he knows about pool," Nick says with a shrug, strutting towards the pool table. He immediately starts setting the game up, leaving Niall and Harry no choice but to follow.

"I really am terrible at pool," he mutters to Harry as a final warning.

"We'll manage. I like to think I can be a competent enough teacher to prevent you from breaking my uncle's windows, at least," Harry's already reaching for two pool sticks, handing one over to Niall before grabbing the chalk. Niall does his best to pay attention to what Harry's _saying,_ but he keeps getting stuck on the sight of Harry's long fingers curling around the little block of blue chalk. In the end, the only thing he thinks he's retained is to hold his arm at an angle. He’s just not exactly sure _what_ angle that’s supposed to be. 

Nick breaks, sinking two solid balls right off the bat and leaving Harry and Niall with stripes. "I'll go first. Just watch," Harry says, walking around the table to line up a shot. Niall fiddles with the pool cue in his hands, bumping it back and forth with the end on the ground, trying to not focus _too hard_ on the sight of Harry bent over like that.

He doesn't _get_ it. Harry's _always_ been attractive. Niall's not _blind._ But he's just not sure why he feels so much more _effected_ by it now when, by all means, he shouldn't care. He _shouldn't_ be this breathless looking at the lean line of Harry's back when he leans over the table, the way his hand flexes to cradle the end of the cue stick, the stray chestnut curl falling into his eyes. The cue ball knocks into the 14 ball, knocking it swiftly into the far corner pocket. "It's all in the arms, really," Harry says as he straightens up.

"I taught him that," Nick adds, looking at Niall like he knows _everything._ Like it's written in dark ink across Niall's face, all the wanting he doesn't _want._ If he's going to make it through tonight without embarrassing himself, he's going to have to control himself better. He's not nearly as good at it as Sophia is, though. He thinks she could smile politely through having a finger chopped off. Nick takes another shot, just barely failing to knock another ball in.

And then Harry's looking back at Niall, motioning him forward and pointing to the blue-striped 10 ball, "Go for that ball. It'll be the easiest shot."

"Easy for you to say," Niall mumbles. He leans over, trying to line up the shot. Breslin had told him that pool was just a game of geometry, being able to predict where the ball would go based on how you hit it, but that didn't account for whatever angle Niall had used to make the ball go through the window. As he expected, the shot misses entirely, the cue ball drifting slowly to a stop inches away from the 10 ball. He scowls at the mockingly-motionless ball, fully prepared to hear some dry remark from Harry as he stands up straight again.

Harry rounds the table, grabbing the ball and putting it back where it was when Niall hit it. "Oh, of course, I have no issue with a do over," Nick comments lightly, leaning against the edge of the pool table and spinning his pool cue between his fingers.

"I knew you wouldn’t," Harry replies before Niall even gets the chance to say he doesn't need a second shot at missing. "Come on, try again," Niall leans back in, wishing his hands wouldn't shake so hard. He isn't expecting Harry's hand to rest on his back, pushing him just a little further down. His breath catches as every inch of his body stills, torn between arching away and pushing back into the touch. Harry's hand is large, so _warm_ even through the thick fabric of Niall's jacket. "That's better," Harry says softly, "Keep your arm at a right angle." His other hand curves around Niall's elbow, holding it in place. Harry hasn't touched him since they danced at Gawsworth and this is _so_ different. His palms are getting sweaty, forcing him to tighten his grip on the stick just so it doesn't slip out of his hands entirely. "You want the motion to be smooth from start to finish. Aim for just a little below the center of the cue ball, take a deep breath, and then strike," Niall's never heard Harry's voice like this. So soft and smooth and _warm._

He swallows, takes the steadiest breath his frantic chest can manage, and takes the shot again. This time, the cue ball hits the mark and the 10 ball rolls cleanly into the pocket. "Ha!" he shouts, bouncing on his toes. He glances over at Harry, as if there was any possible way that Harry could've missed the shot going in. Harry, whose hand is still resting softly on Niall's back as if it were always meant to be there.

Harry, who's smiling at _him_ as though Niall's just accomplished something far more impressive than a single pool shot. Niall remembers thinking that Harry had a mouth for smiling the night they'd met, and god help him, he _does._ Dimples aside, it makes the corners of his green eyes crinkle up and Niall never knew that Harry could look so… _soft._ And for _him._ "Well done, Niall," he murmurs. Niall's never heard Harry say his name like that, falling off Harry's full lips like honey. He never knew how much he _wanted_ it either.

" _Well,"_ Nick says from the other side of the table, "the student becomes the teacher, I see."

"Don't worry, Grimmy," Harry replies, winking— _winking_ —at Niall before he glances back at Nick, "Niall and I will go easy on you." Niall's not sure whether he wants to start deliberately missing shots just on the off chance that Harry touches him more or whether he wants to get every shot on his own to earn more smiles. Neither option is one he expected to have in the first place and the indecision leaves his throat tight. He wants to say something, maybe tell Harry that he's still such a bloody _mystery_ that’s got Niall all tangled up and ask him to explain himself, but the words won't come. Or maybe he just doesn't want to ruin this illusion that Harry might actually _like_ him after all.

So he swallows and watches Nick miss his shot and laughs when he says he should get a do over as well and pretends that any of this is normal at all. Pretends that he knows how to handle it, that he'll know what to think of it when he's back alone in bed tonight with nothing but the ghostly warmth of Harry touching him. Pretends he understands the chaos ruling his head and heart as Harry walks around the table, eyes meeting Niall’s as he bends over and takes his shot.

///

"Just be smart, Harry," Nick says after the dinner guests have parted and Harry's watched their carriage disappear into the darkness at the edge of the driveway.

"Smart?"

"About Horan. Just know what you're getting yourself into, alright? I’d really rather not see you get hurt and have to pick up the pieces," Nick squeezes his shoulder and then heads upstairs to one of the guest rooms. Harry stays by the window, staring at his muted reflection in it. Taking in the smile that hasn't faded from his face since their pool game, his cheeks almost burning from the effort for so long. Wondering if Niall's still smiling too. The spark between them’s never been so strong before, so _undeniable,_ and if they’d been alone Harry thinks he might’ve bent Niall over that pool table for decidedly different reasons.

He knows what he's getting himself into. He's still not sure on the hows or whys—though seeing Niall so elated, all bright eyes and that full-bodied laugh, has certainly put more pieces of that puzzle together—but he knows what he wants. And he'll get it.


	4. I never thought that a lie could sound so sweet, until you opened your mouth and you said you loved me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Niall gets what he wanted (except not really), Harry gets a rude awakening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from Lewis Capaldi's Headspace

"Let it go, Holly," Niall says under his breath, "I keep telling you that it probably didn't mean anything."

"Didn't mean anything my rear end," Holly retorts, "The only man I've seen look _more_ interested in someone was Mr. Payne with Sophia."

"And look how that turned out," it turned out to be nothing but heartbreak for Sophia, who decided to leave London a week early, and a hot, guilty weight in Niall's stomach. He pushed her to go to London, told her that everything would work out, and this is what happened. Even if he _could_ understand Harry's sudden about face in terms of how he acted around Niall, maybe he doesn't have the right to think about it. He'd rather have Sophia happy than be happy himself. Not that he thinks Harry would make him happy, necessarily. Probably.

He's only seen Harry once since that night at Lyme Park when their paths crossed in town two days ago. He hadn't gotten another smile, but Harry was still distinctly _warmer_ towards him in ways Niall just doesn't _get._ He did _nothing_ to change Harry's view of him, he's positive of that. And he keeps thinking about Zayn saying how good Harry is at _cultivating kindness_ and wonders if that's all this is. Maybe Harry decided that he wanted to charm Niall onto his side rather than Zayn's. That would certainly make it easier for Niall to brush all this off, but something about it doesn't feel right. He supposes that _most_ things about Harry don't feel right.

Except for the memory of Harry's hand on his back, large and warm and tender, which keeps creeping into Niall's mind whenever he starts daydreaming. He woke up this morning to fading images of Harry's hands all over him, touching every inch of his skin with no clothes in the way, and found himself lying in damp sheets like he was a teenage boy again. If he thought there was no chance that Harry would laugh him out of the room, Niall thinks he might just proposition the older man outright. Maybe that would be enough to get Harry out of his thoughts. A quick shag to close the unfinished book that is whatever's going on between them.

Of course, he's also worried that it _wouldn't_ close the book. Maybe it would only start other chapters, something which he—well, he doesn't know. Maybe that wouldn't be all that bad. Or maybe it would be the worst mistake Niall's ever made in his life. "Niall!" Holly snaps her gloved fingers in his face, "Are you even listening to me?"

"No," he knows better than to lie to Holly about that. They're almost to the church now for the evening service and he's sure it would cause a scene if he walked in covered in mud from Holly shoving him into the dirt.

"You're impossible," he shrugs it off, chewing on his nail. The Sandbach church is smaller than the one in Congleton but in much better condition. He has no doubt that it's due to Lord Cowell—Greg's probably even mentioned it before but Niall simply tuned it out. "Are you going to sit with Miss Steinfeld and me?" Holly asks as they step into the chapel. Most of the town is already there, chattering away to each other as they get situated in the pews. Niall can see Harry sitting near the front with Lord Cowell and his daughter, two pews back from where Holly and Miss Steinfeld will be sitting.

He knows he can't take an entire sermon of Harry staring at the back of his head, so he says, "Think I'll sit in the back this time."

"I swear, Niall, if you fall asleep…" Holly warns.

"I promise I won't fall asleep," as she moves towards the front pew, Niall sinks into the last one, scooting until he's at the very end. He's never been religious, goes to church in Congleton mainly because he and Ashlyn supply the music and its expected of everyone to go, and knows that he's not even in the best mental space to _pretend_ to be moved by any holy spirits today. He pinches the bridge of his nose, sinking down further into the pew until the curved top is digging into his neck.

"I hope I'm not interrupting?" Niall glances up to see Nick standing beside him, dark hair combed back neatly, cravat folded to perfection. But he doesn't make Niall feel quite as underdressed as Harry does, which is a blessing right now. There’s something looser about the man, easy-going even when every inch of him looks like the perfect gentleman.

"Not at all," Nick settles in next to Niall, crossing his long legs, "You're still at staying Lyme Park, I take it?"

"Unfortunately, yes. I think Cowell's a bore, but it's just a stop on the way to Holmes Chapel and Harry’s family’s house. And I am enjoying the company more than usual," he adds with a grin.

"Likewise."

"I'm going to take it you don't get out to London much," the doors to the church shut behind the last person to walk in and a hush settles swiftly over the crowd. Niall shakes his head, eyes flickering back towards where Harry is. "Figured as much," Nick adds, "Otherwise I would've known you already. I like to think I’m at least acquainted with everyone who’s anyone in town."

"City life's not really for me," Greg appears at the pulpit, clearing his throat loudly. Maybe it's a good thing that Nick's sitting next to him and talking as Niall really could fall asleep. Greg’s monotonous, droning sermons are possibly better than the sweetest lullaby.

Nick smirks, "Ah, to live the blessed life of a simple country gentleman. I envy you that, Horan. Eventually, the endless twists and turns of society drama get so tedious."

"Country life's not all that different. I'm always hearing more gossip than I care to know about, though I suppose that comes with having four sisters."

"Four? God help you then, because I just know you're never getting a moment of peace and quiet in your family’s house," Niall stifles a snort into his collar.

"They're few and far between, though I do love my siblings. I'd take a bullet for any one of them," with how Julia and Perrie carry on with the militiamen, Niall's not entirely sure that he won't one day run into that situation. He's a fair enough shot, he supposes, but he'd rather not have to get into a duel over someone's honor. 

Nick pats his thigh, "Sign of a good man, caring for friends and family like that. Sometimes, you have to say the tough things, you know. I mean, our Mr. Styles just had to do that with one of his friends."

That snares Niall's attention back from the edge of wandering off, guided by the fading sunlight streaming in a rainbow of colors through the stained-glass windows. "What do you mean?"

"He recently had to stop his friend, Mr. Payne, from entering an engagement that likely would've been _disastrous_ considering the circumstances _._ Payne's a good man, so he took it well enough, but those are the kinds of conversations that you never like having, you know?" Niall feels the blood drain from his face. His head spins and he grips the bench seat to stop himself from toppling over. He does his best to keep his expression blank but it's taking everything in him to do it.

"Who was the girl?" he asks, trying to figure out if Nick already knows and is just trying to make some sort of point. As if Niall needed any reminders on how different he and Harry’s _circumstances_ are.

But the older man shrugs, picking at his nails, "Harry didn't say. Someone from that little town they were staying in, I presume."

Of course. Niall swallows down the urge to strut straight up the aisle and beat Harry to a whimpering, bloody pulp. He can't take his eyes off the back of Harry's head, almost daring the other man to turn at look at him. "Did he say what would've made it so _disastrous_ that he felt he needed to step in?"

"I think it was something about her family being undesirable, beneath Payne's status. That part didn't surprise me, Payne's the kind of man to fall for someone below him. Man’s a positively pitiful romantic," Nick finally looks back at Niall, "Are you alright? You look like you're about to be sick."

"I-I think I'm getting a headache. Excuse me," there's no subtle way to slip out of the church but Niall doesn't care. He'll take the sound of everyone turning in their seats to watch as he practically sprints from the chapel, legs wobbling underneath him. The fresh air does nothing to help the fact that he feels like he's choking. He leans against the brick wall, sagging down until he's sitting on the cold grass and staring up at a sky turning increasingly grey-green, clouds darkening and swirling faster than his thoughts. It's Harry's fault.

It's _Harry's_ fault.

///

When it started pouring, Niall probably should've gone back inside. But he was still far too upset, nausea roiling in his gut, so he'd just started walking instead without thinking of where he was going. Letting the rain soak through his shirt, leaving him cold and shivering, boots squelching in the increasingly muddy path. He just _wanders_ in the rain, struggling to pull himself back under control. When the rain turns into a full downpour, he takes shelter in a stone gazebo that he thinks must be on Lyme Park ground. It doesn't make him feel any safer, doesn't help the fact that he's drenched to the marrow of his bones, but it's somewhere to sit and stare at nothing without getting even wetter.

He's mad at Harry for what he did to Liam and Sophia, for deciding that he had the right to meddle in someone else's business. He's mad at Harry for the other night, for making Niall think that he might genuinely care for him when he thinks Niall's family is _so_ undesirable that Liam would have to be warned away from them, like they carry some disease nobody wants to catch.

And he's mad at _himself_ for believing Harry could like him. For getting blinded by that hand on his back, that beautiful smile, those green eyes. For daring to _hope._ He should’ve known better, known that Harry’s so damn far out of his grasp that there never would’ve been a chance to take even if he’d wanted to take one.

Niall hears footsteps coming close, the sound half muffled by the overwhelming, pulsing beat of the rain pouring down around him. He doesn't want any company now though and perhaps it's time that he makes his way back to Holly and Greg's anyway. He's sure that Holly will laugh until she cries when she sees him stumbling in all bedraggled and haunted but there's nothing to be done about it. He'll look like a fool in front of her and Greg, but he _feels_ like a damn fool right now so it's fitting.

He did not, of course, think about the possibility of making a fool of himself in front of Harry, so when he rounds the corner only to collide with the taller man, his grunt is one of pure surprise. Harry's just as drenched as he is, though he's managing to make looking like a drowned rat appealing. "There you are," Harry says as they both step back, finding their equilibrium again.

"You were looking for me?" Niall asks, trying to push his hair out of his face. The wind has picked up, blowing rain in a fine mist over them both even under the shelter of the roof.

"I must speak to you," Harry's eyes are greener than the thick trees surrounding them. If Niall didn't want to punch his bloody teeth in, he thinks he'd drown in them a little more. No wonder Harry could get away with what he did to Zayn. An angelic face like his could test anyone's resolve.

"Spit it out then," he knows that he's not being polite, but Harry doesn't _deserve_ manners. Not anymore. The only thing in Niall's head is Sophia's face, the way she looks whenever she's trying to bite back sorrow, the way she must've looked when Louis told her that it wasn't worth it, and it's _all Harry's fault._

Harry licks his lips, so soft, so _pink,_ "I'm in love with you." Niall blinks at him. Opens his mouth to try and reply and then shuts it again. He wonders if he's got too much water in his ears or something, if he misheard Harry say literally _anything else_ that would've made more sense. Harry takes a step forward, "I have tried, I've _tried_ to move past it, but I can't ignore it any longer. I can't get you out of my head, Niall, no matter how hard I try. I know it makes no sense. Your family is far below mine, their conduct almost unconceivable, and you are nowhere near the ideal match for me, but I can't help it anymore. I've _suffered_ , laid awake at night trying not to love you but I just keep failing at it, so there's nothing for me to do but give in now. I love you most ardently and I hope you will accept my offer of marriage, as unlikely as I ever thought it would be."

Niall lets silence fall over them for a minute, a heavy blanket weighed down by the rain, just in case Harry decides that he missed out on an insult or two. "Are you quite finished, then?" Niall says, keeping his voice as even as possible when it feels like the very ground is crumbling below his feet.

"Yes," Harry replies and perhaps the worst part of this—which is saying something, as _every_ part of this is the _worst_ —is that fact that Harry looks so calm, so self-assured as ever. Like he's expecting Niall to swoon straight into his arms, lashes fluttering with admiration. Niall's been waiting 21 years for someone to say that they love him. He just didn't think the three words would be swaddled like a newborn child in every one of his flaws.

Niall swallows, shifting his weight and clasping his hands behind his back to keep himself from doing something reckless, "I'm sorry to have caused you any pain or suffering, Harry, but I'm not sure what response you're expecting from me." He takes a little pleasure in watching Harry frown, a wrinkle of surprise forming in his brow, "In fact, I'm quite shocked that you think any of what you just said deserves a response at all."

"I tell you I love you and _propose to you_ and you don't think that _deserves_ a response?" ice is slipping back into Harry's voice, hardening the rough edges. Sounding more like _Harry._

"You propose to me by telling me how I’m not the ideal match for you and how _far below_ you my family and I are. You told me that you love me and then immediately couched it by underlining how entirely unsuitable I am for you and how much you've suffered by trying _not_ to love me, as if I am some sort of sickness you're trying to find a cure for. As if _love_ is something anyone should want to get rid of," he grits his teeth, "Not _only_ that, but you seem to think that your flattery wrapped in _insults_ is worth anything at all when you're the reason for my sister's unhappiness." Harry stares at him, cheeks flushed, and a muscle twitches in his jaw. "Do you deny it?"

"I don't," Harry replies crisply, "In fact, I neither deny it nor feel the slightest bit of remorse for it. I quite think that I've done Liam a favor. It was painfully obvious that your _sister_ had no real affection for him, and he certainly did not need to be tied to your family."

"She had—?" Sophia always says Niall’s rage is a shooting star, a fleeting appearance that's white hot, burning bright and fast. And Harry must not be expecting anything, as he only flails his arms when Niall grabs him by his collar and slams him against the damp stone wall of the gazebo. "Sophia is _shy,_ you bastard! She loves Liam so much that she's been broken hearted ever since he left Congleton! He was the first real man she thought that she could marry, and _you_ ruined it!" Niall keeps his eyes on Harry's because even with his anger, even with the way that he doubts he's ever been this insulted, he knows himself too well to think that focusing on Harry's open mouth for a fraction of a second wouldn't distract him entirely.

"She should've shown that interest then, shy or not! Liam's got more than enough women after him that can actually prove their affection."

"And none of them could ever hold a candle to the kind of woman my sister is! So you can take that _favor_ and shove it up your fucking arse," he hisses. They're so close that he can feel Harry's breath on his chin, so much warmer than the damp wind. It sends a shiver down his spine that he knows has nothing to do with the natural chill of the storm, threatens his resolve in the worst way. His eyes flicker down to Harry's lips for just a moment before he forces them back up. He can't give in, he _won't._ Whatever Harry feels for him, he _knows_ that it's not actually love, "You are no better than the rest of us just because you have more money or nicer clothes. Really, I find it a wonder that Zayn associated with you for so long."

Harry's eyes tighten at the edges; he stands up straighter, towering over Niall as he snarls, "Yes, of course, how could anyone forget to feel sorry for poor _Mr. Malik."_

"After he'd told me what you'd done to him, I never should've spoken to you again! I cannot understand how anyone could treat family like that."

"Zayn was _not_ my family!" Harry seethes, hand fisting in Niall's shirt, tugging him in even closer. He could count Harry's eyelashes now, or maybe the flecks of gold and grey in his jade eyes. "Not then, not now, not _ever._ He's not fit to speak my family's name."

"And you're not bloody fit to speak mine either!" Niall snaps back, feeling tears prickling in his eyes, "My family is a mess at times. I would never _deny_ that. But they are _my family,_ no matter what they do, and I refuse to let you speak of them so poorly. You don't _know_ them."

"Your family reflects on _you,_ Niall, just as much as it reflects on your sister. Am I supposed to rejoice at your lack of connections? At your mother's total lack of self-control in public or your sisters' apparent urge to flirt shamelessly with anyone in a uniform? I was trying to look past that, come to terms with it for your sake, because that would be the only way I could stomach it. If you've ever wondered why you're an unmarried bachelor at 21, there's your answer! Nobody outside of desperate people would marry into your family."

"I'm unmarried because I want to be in _love_ with the person I marry, you fucking _arse!"_ Niall hates the way his voice cracks, mimicking the peal of thunder that rumbles through the air, "I want to marry someone that I can stand the thought of spending the rest of my life with and not feel like I'm _suffering_ , someone that I'll love on my deathbed as much as I do on my wedding day. I wouldn't care if it were the queen of fucking England or a beggar on the street. I just want to be in fucking _love_ with someone and if that results in me dying alone, then so _fucking_ be it. I am not some simpering girl whining about being on a bloody shelf, grateful for the most _insulting_ proposal I've ever heard!"

Harry stares at him, mouth slowly flattening into a tight, pale line on his face, "I take it that _that_ is your true response to me then. A refusal."

Niall barks out a laugh that tears through his throat, "Yes, it is. You can rest easily at night, _Mr. Styles,_ knowing that you'll never have to be tied down to someone as lowly and unworthy as myself or my miserable family because you are the _last_ man I could ever want to marry."

The bitter truth is that, especially after the other day, Niall doubts that would've been a true statement. Because he thinks that he really _could've_ loved Harry, with his green eyes and his dimples and his low voice and his wide smile, but that was before he'd learned that Harry not only thinks Niall's beneath him but _also_ ruined Sophia's best chance at happiness. Now the thought of looking at Harry for another _second_ makes him want to scream himself hoarse from anger, from hurt, from the loss of something he never knew was within reach.

"Very well," Harry says, shoving Niall back. Niall nearly slips on the wet stones, catching himself at the last moment on the railing, "I regret thinking that this was a worthy discussion. That _you_ were worth my time." Harry's voice is colder than the worst winter, a dagger made of ice digging into the small of Niall's back with murderous intent, and he’s glaring down at Niall like he’s nothing more than trash. It’s a look Niall already knows is going to linger in his mind.

"My _sincerest_ apologies, sir," Niall does his most mocking bow, hoping Harry doesn't notice the fact that his chin is wobbling as he struggles to stop from crying, "I pray you'll be able to recover your dignity from ever having suffered the pain of _thinking_ you loved someone as undeserving and _worthless_ as merely-tolerable-me." Not wanting to give Harry the satisfaction of being the one to walk away, Niall stomps back out into the downpour and refuses to look back. By the time he arrives at Greg and Holly's home, bedraggled and drained, he's not sure what counts for tears and what counts for raindrops on his cheeks.

///

Niall doesn't sleep. He blames it on the foreign bed, on the rain beating against the windows all night, on the fact that one of the blankets is scratchy. But it's really because of Harry. He keeps replaying that proposal over and over again in his mind as if he could change the outcome. He's not even sure what he would change it _to,_ though. Harry made his sentiments quite clear and Niall did the same.

Niall's defensive over his family just as much as he thinks any good man should be, but as he stares at the ceiling, he knows that Harry wasn't wrong. His family (including him) all dance on the wrong edge of being proper. And it's fine in Congleton, where everyone is friendly, and the lines of slander are well maintained. But a man like Harry doesn't live in a place like Congleton. Niall knows he's good in all the ways that matter to _him,_ but not that matter to society. If he'd said yes—and Niall thinks part of his lack of sleep is because his brain refuses to risk the chance of dreaming that he'd said yes—then it would've fallen apart anyway. Niall doesn't want to spend all his time talking to pompous strangers in London. He doesn't want to live his life just trying to impress people that don't matter to him.

But maybe, against all his protestations and attempts at convincing himself otherwise, _Harry_ did matter to him. He thinks back to the other night at Lyme Park, that one _blasted_ evening that set him up for this fall. How Harry’s touch on his back had given him wax wings, made him think it would alright to fly so close to the burning sun that _is_ Harry. Niall would like to think that he's never been so desperate for praise as he was after sinking that first shot perfectly, but he'd wanted to see Harry smile at _him_. He'd gotten what he asked for but now it’s all soured.

Love is supposed to be unconditional. Love is meant to bloom _despite_ flaws, plaster healing over the imperfections, water wearing away the rough edges of a stone until it's smooth and soft. Maybe Harry has a different definition of love but that's Niall's. And as far as _Niall_ is concerned, Harry _can't_ genuinely love him, not when his love had a thousand caveats and compromises. Maybe he'd decided Niall was more than tolerably attractive or that Niall had somehow managed to check off more of that impossible list of standards and Harry had _equated_ that with love. But Niall doesn't want someone who acts like loving him is a curse, who fights against it so hard. Niall wants someone to love him and call it freedom, call it _paradise._

He wants someone to love him without seeming like they hate every minute of it because right now, he doubts he’s ever felt so low before. He’d finally heard someone say those words he’s been waiting his whole life to hear but it was all wrong, like fate was mocking his dreams, giving him what he wanted but turning it into something painful.

He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes until they stop watering so much. He’d cried enough last night, head on Holly’s shoulder as she kept a blanket wound around him to help warm him up. It wasn’t quite as helpful as he thinks having Sophia here would’ve been, but all he really needed was to hear someone say that he’d been wronged. Someone he trusted to stand in his corner and confirm that his hurt and anger wasn’t without reason. He thinks Sophia’s probably the only other person he’ll tell anyway. God knows that if his mother learned that he’d had a proposal from Harry and turned it down, she actually _would_ stop speaking to him for the rest of her life. He probably is going to end up alone at this point, having turned down an offer that was almost comically higher than he ever could've expected. But for the first time, that future almost stings. It feels less like a future of being free to do whatever the hell he wants and more like a future of being _alone._

With a heavy sigh, he gets out of bed. Even though Sophia's not here and Holly flatly refuses to get up this early ("not unless the house is burning down around me and even then, it had better be _hot_ "), he's been taking morning walks anyway. He doubts that it will do anything to clear his head right now, but it's better than nothing. He just needs to keep moving, give himself something to do that isn’t “stare at the ceiling and feel pitiful.”

The rain's slowed to a mere drizzle now, speckling his clothes and making him wish he'd brought a hat. But there's a lightness in the clouds that hints at sun soon, so he presses on and starts walking down his now usual path that crosses the fields between Greg and Holly's cottage and Lyme Park. Harry probably lives in a big house like Lyme Park, all opulence and perfection. Niall thinks he'd only stain a place like that. Whenever Harry _does_ decide to get married, Niall knows it will be to someone who _belongs_. Someone who fits into that scene just as perfectly as Harry does, all poise and confidence and serenity.

Niall's still quite livid over what Sophia said Louis told her at that ballroom, but maybe he was right. Maybe it applies to Niall too, this idea that the two of them just aren't _built_ for the spotless world of London society. Usually, Niall would exult in a comment like that, but right now it only makes him nauseous. What if he'd said yes, married Harry, and then had to stand there and watch as Harry realized just how unsuitable Niall was for the rest of his world? When Harry realized that Niall's rough edges stopped being a funny trait and started being a hindrance?

He misses _home._ Hell, he misses _Ireland._ Five-year-old boys don't have many problems outside of not getting caught after causing trouble or being forced to finish their vegetables, but that doesn't change that fact that Ireland was _better._ Maybe, in his future alone, he can arrange to sell Little Moreton to either one of his sister's future husbands or Greg (if he must) and use the money to go back to Mullingar. He would probably find being lonely more bearable there.

The drizzle's faded out by the time he reaches the edge of Lyme Park, the place where he's been taking a short break under a wide oak tree before inevitably retracing his path back to the cottage every morning. But the spot under the tree is occupied now. Niall lurches to a stop, nearly tripping over his own feet as he watches Harry push himself off the tree. It's like the world's gone entirely silent, not a bird to be heard for miles. Niall's almost certain that he can hear the grass growing. "Mr. Styles," he says, not sure what's happening next. Harry was _waiting_ for him here, which means he knew about Niall's morning walks somehow.

"Mr. Horan," Harry replies, his voice perfectly, horribly polite, "I will be leaving Lyme Park tomorrow."

"I—alright?" Niall's not sure what other answer he's supposed to give. He hates the fact that even this early in the morning, Harry looks like the ideal composed gentleman, clothes pressed and pristine, not a single curl out of place. Niall knows his own clothes are wrinkled, his hair far too rumpled, and it’s probably only compounding everything Harry already thought about Niall. A living example of just how _unworthy_ Niall’s always been. At least Harry doesn’t look quite as disgusted as he had yesterday. Now he’s just looking at Niall like he’s a total stranger, devoid of any emotion whatsoever. If he’d had walls built up to keep people like Niall out, now they’ve been reinforced with a moat around them, one Niall thinks he could drown in. Maybe he already did for daring to get too close.

Harry reaches into his black jacket, pulling out a folded-up letter, "Would you do me the honor of reading this?" Niall's gaze flicks down to the letter in Harry's outstretched hand, not sure if he wants to agree. Harry doesn't sigh, doesn't chuckle, doesn't smirk, doesn't do anything other than calmly add, "No need to worry, Mr. Horan. I'm not renewing my sentiments from yesterday. I know a lost cause when I see one."

Niall hopes Harry doesn't see the way he flinches. Maura's called him a lost cause more times than Niall could ever count, but it stings more when Harry says it. His brain adds that to the lexicon of things about Harry that will haunt him for the rest of his life, right up next to the word _tolerable._ He’ll get them to put it on his headstone after he’s dead. Here lies Niall Horan, a tolerable lost cause.

"Do you—do you need me to read it in front of you?" he tries, making sure that his fingers don't brush Harry's at all as he takes the letter. He can’t bear the risk of touching him. What if that spark’s still there? It wouldn’t confuse or thrill him anymore, he’s sure of that. Now it would only hurt, twist that knife in his back even more.

"That will be unnecessary. Knowing you'll read it is enough. Thank you, Mr. Horan," Harry tilts his head forward before turning on his heel and walking off in the direction of Lyme Park. Niall watches him go, barely blinks until Harry's curly head has vanished over the other side of the green hill. His chest feels tight like how it felt when he had breathing trouble as a child. He looks down at the letter, at his own name written on the front in Harry's crisp handwriting, and decides that he'll read it now. He's not sure what the contents will be and would rather have the chance to read it for himself first before Holly's there to snoop.

He sinks down into the damp grass under the shade of the tree and unfolds the letter. It's nearly three pages long, the lines tight and straight in a way Niall could never hope to replicate.

> _Niall,_
> 
> _It was my intention to move on with my life without thinking of you at all, but you seem to be uncommonly skilled at getting stuck in my thoughts. If this letter reads as jumbled, then, I hope that you will forgive me. It's being written in the middle of the night with the express hope that I will be able to give it to you directly on your morning walk. I know where you stop near Lyme Park and it is my hope that I'll be able to catch you there. I would have someone else deliver it, but I don't trust others to leave this unopened. I will not attempt to change anything from our discussion yesterday, but my pride and my honor requires that I explain certain matters._
> 
> _With regards to your sister, I acted based on what I perceived to be the truth. I have known Liam since we were boys and know his tendency to fall fast and trust easily all too well. His regard for your sister was sincere, but I did not see that she felt the same way. As you are her twin, I will accept your explanation of her shy nature and, in that regard, I apologize if I judged her feelings wrongly. But I cannot apologize for what I did otherwise. Your mother spent the entire ball at Gawsworth not only treating a non-existent engagement as though it was set in stone, but eagerly discussing my dear friend as if he were nothing more than a living bank draft. With my perception of your sister not truly returning Liam's feelings, I believed that it was all a plan by your mother to have a daughter marry above her station and worried that Liam was being taken advantage of. Your sister's gentleness and docility made me fear that she was not against such a plan or, even worse, was a willing participant. Therefore, I did everything I could to dissuade Liam from proposing and suggested that he leave Congleton entirely._
> 
> _I have no doubt that I was blunter than was appropriate yesterday—though I am sure that you will agree to being no better—but I also refuse to take back my impression of your family. I understand and, as much as you might doubt it, admire your loyalty to your family. But there is a point at which loyalty becomes detrimental. The behavior of your mother and two youngest sisters was shocking. Your mother is one of the loudest gossips I have ever heard, and I have no doubt that her every comment about me was intended to be heard, not to mention the way she openly demeaned you in front of that crowd. You deserve better than to be spoken about like that, Niall. Your youngest sisters spent the entirety of the night doing their best to flirt with any man in a militia uniform with little respect to dignity or reason. While I admire your best attempts at controlling the situation, it only can only go so far. A reputation is only as good as the name attached to it, and both you and your twin are currently sharing a name with people seemingly intent on flagrantly ruining reputations. _
> 
> _I had quite hoped to put everything regarding Mr. Malik in the past by now, having expected to never see him again. The story is unpleasant, both for myself and my family, and I have no joy in recounting it even in the hope of clearing my name, but I will do it anyway. My father met Zayn's father while on a trip to the continent. They formed a close business relationship to the benefit of both our families. Zayn was a frequent visitor at our family house when I was a child and I considered him one of my closest friends, a brother in all but name. Eventually, his father gave him the option to stay with my family as a permanent guest. We grew up together and I trusted him implicitly._
> 
> _When his father passed away, he had left Zayn a considerable sum of money in his will. I was unsurprised and in fact supportive when Zayn decided to move to London to make something of himself and his love of art using that money. He returned barely two years later after the death of my own father. I learned that, rather than making something of himself, he had instead squandered his entire inheritance on gambling and luxuries in London. He had returned in the hopes that my father had left him money as well. My father's provision for Zayn, however, was a lucrative position within trade that, if done well, would've left Zayn with more than enough money to live comfortably and pursue his artistic desires on the side. Zayn refused the offer and attempted to exchange it for a small sum of money._
> 
> _In the hopes of maintaining the peace, I reluctantly agreed and settled an agreed upon sum on him with the understanding that that would be the end of it. I arranged for the position to go to Louis instead, who was eager to try and boost funds for his sisters' dowries. Within six months, Zayn returned with empty pockets yet again and demanded to receive the job. I refused, stating the terms of our original deal. Zayn lingered at our house for some time, claiming that he was just trying to decide where to go next. While I wasn’t particularly enthused to have them there after our arguments, I thought nothing of as it had been his home too for many years. I was unaware that there was any cause for concern until my mother discovered that Zayn, my sister, and her governess had all vanished._
> 
> _We were lucky enough to find them before they had made it to Scotland. Zayn had done his best to convince my sister of his love for her and of the grand romance of an elopement. His plot was aided by my sister's governess, who was immediately relieved of her duties. My sister was barely 16 at the time, entirely unaware that his goal, of course, had been her dowry the entire time. My sister was crushed, having believed herself quite in love with him, and it was only due to my mother's intervention that I didn't call him out at dawn. I told him to never return and thought that it would be the end of any relationship between us. Seeing him in Congleton was a most unwelcome surprise, as was seeing him getting close to you._
> 
> _As the entire affair was kept quiet to protect my sister’s reputation, I am trusting now in your discretion to not repeat the tale to anyone else. I am unaware of the exact details of the story he told you and I know that there's a chance you don't believe anything I've written. But I had to tell you the truth, Niall, for reasons that I'm not entirely sure of even now. It would seem that your opinion of me still matters rather more than I hoped it would after yesterday and therefore I wished to give the best defense of myself that I possibly can. Whether you believe it or not is up to you, I suppose. I wish you all the best, Niall._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _H_

Niall re-reads it three times, the third time out loud (albeit quietly, as if the birds building a nest on a branch above him are going to be eavesdropping) just to try and comprehend everything. It doesn't truly work, not when there's so much information laid out in the letter that he’s attempting to understand, but it's a start. He swallows, tracing the _H_ at the bottom of the letter with his thumb. He's glad that Harry didn't wait for him to read it, no matter what the reason was. Maybe he couldn't stand the sight of Niall for a second longer or maybe he has better things to do. Either way, if Niall had finished this and then looked back into those green eyes, he's sure he would've lost himself entirely.

The parts about his family—well, it's not like Niall can deny those with a clear conscience. He can be annoyed with it, especially the part about loyalty being detrimental when that's not how loyalty works for him, but none of Harry's observations were false. And he's still mad about Sophia as well; the new knowledge that Harry had used assumptions to destroy the happiness of his twin is likely going to stay with him for quite some time. But everything else?

Niall would _love_ to dismiss it all out of hand as Harry spinning a tale to make him look like the victim, but it makes sense in an unfortunate way. Zayn had been so vague about just why he'd come looking for Harry's charity, so set on casting Harry in the worst possible light. Perhaps Sophia was right, and Niall just hadn't _wanted_ to look for holes in the story, not when he wanted so desperately to find any reason at all to convince himself that he didn’t care about Harry. He thinks back to Laura, her nose wrinkling as she cautioned him to remember logic when it came to trusting Zayn. He's not sure how much she may know, but he thinks she knew more than he did.

They were supposed to go to dinner at Lyme Park again tonight. Niall could use it as a chance to ask more questions, try to get clarification, but he doesn't think he can be near Harry right now. He was already sure he'd never see the older man again after yesterday, but this only compounds that belief. He needs to get his head sorted out before he can even think about looking Harry in the eye again. He folds the letter back up, putting it in his pocket, and walks back to Holly and Greg's. The sun is shining now, too bright for the current storm in his head.

"There you—what's wrong?" Holly asks as soon as he steps inside the house.

Niall swallows, shakes his head, feels the letter burning a hole in his pocket, "I-I need to go back home."

Holly frowns, putting her embroidery down and standing up, "What happened? You weren't supposed to leave until Friday."

Niall glances over at Miss Steinfeld, who's watching them with the same level of ill-concealed interest Perrie and Julia have, and says, "Something’s suddenly come up. I'm sorry. I promise I'll come back soon, stay an extra week to make up for it, but I just need to get back home today."

"We're due at Lyme Park for dinner again tonight. Are you sure it can't wait until tomorrow at least?"

"Positive," he turns and heads for his bedroom, thankful that he didn't bring that much to pack. He thinks there's a mail coach that will leave town by noon. Sophia was supposed to be dropped off yesterday by the Millers at an inn on her way back from London. He can meet her there and ride back to Little Moreton with her. He stuffs clothing haphazardly into his bag, knowing that it will arrive in a wrinkled lump that will get his ears boxed by their maid back home, but that's the least of his worries right now.

He hears the door shutting behind Holly, "At least reassure me that nobody is ill or dying, Niall."

"Nobody is ill or dying. I just got news about something and I need to be home to figure it out."

"Will you promise to tell me what it was after it's been figured out? It would help me sleep better if I could at least know that," he quite dislikes the worry in Holly's voice, the way it compacts onto the guilt and confusion tightening his chest. He doesn’t want her to worry about him like that, especially now that she doesn’t just live down the road. It’ll take a lot longer for him to get a letter to her saying that everything’s fine. Probably because he’s not sure how long it’s going to take for him to _feel_ like everything’s fine.

"I will, I promise. I'm sorry I'm leaving so suddenly, really. I’ve missed you so much and it's been _so good_ to see you thriving here, Holly. I mean that too. Running a family, running a house—it’s what you were always meant to do, and I hope you understand how good you are at it," her smile doesn't reach her eyes and the way she returns his hug is tighter than usual, "Everything will be fine. I just need to sort some things out."

"Very well. I'll worry about you until I hear more, but—" she pauses, pulling back just enough to look up at him, "Does this have anything to do with yesterday?" Niall just nods, praying that she doesn't push any harder on it. She purses her lips like she's debating it but then sighs again, getting up on her tip-toes to kiss his cheek, "You'll sort it out, Ni, I know it. He doesn't deserve you." Niall hums, unwilling to say out loud that he doesn't think he deserves Harry anymore either (though for vastly different reasons).

///

Thankfully, Sophia’s still at the inn when he arrives, dusty and sore and aching inside and out. The innkeeper goes to fetch her, leaving Niall to wait in the small dining room and resist the urge to curl up in a ball that he’s been feeling ever since he read the letter.

It's good to see Sophia's face even if Niall can see the hurt burning in her eyes, the lack of sleep making itself at home in her dark circles. He thinks he hugs her for about ten straight minutes when she arrives at the foot of the stairs, arms already open for him. He knows that he’s dirtying up what he’s sure is a new dress she bought in town, but she doesn’t seem to mind enough to push him away. For now, Niall just holds his twin and breathes. "Missed you, Soph. Missed you so damn much," he whispers into the silk of her hair.

"Missed you too, Nialler," she replies into his shoulder, fingers digging just a little tighter into the skin of his back. She pulls back before Niall's honestly ready to let her go. They've never been apart for this long in their _lives_ and perhaps he's only now realizing just how much it unsettled him. She cups his cheeks, eyes narrowing, "Well, you know what happened to _me_ but what happened to _you?"_

"Is it that obvious?"

"Painfully obvious, dear. Who hurt you?"

"Harry Styles," the name alone makes his chest ache. Sophia blinks, takes a deep breath, and then slides her arm through his. It steadies him more than she knows.

"Papa is sending the carriage here to pick us up but it probably won't be here for another hour or two. Come on, tell me everything," she leads him up to a room on the second floor, disappearing only long enough to go order him something to eat from the kitchen downstairs. Considering that he’d skipped breakfast and lunch, he thinks he’ll eagerly take whatever scraps they send up here.

Niall sinks onto the bed, fisting his hands in the slightly tattered brown quilt on top. He doesn't know if he's quite ready to talk about it all so soon, but he’s never been able to keep anything from Sophia and he’s not about to start trying now. She won’t judge him and, since she’s the only one between them that consistently uses common sense, will be able to tell him if he’s being a fool. And since they won’t be alone and away from prying ears until their walk tomorrow morning, he might as well do it now. It would've been nice if the mail coach trip here had helped him sort his brain out at all, but it hadn't. He's still got Harry's letter in his pocket, Harry's words tangled in his head, and that's blocking out any attempt at being rational about things.

Sophia returns and sits down next to him, arm pressed against his and head tilted against his shoulder. She smells like home. She wraps her arm around his waist, stroking his side, and murmurs, “Tell me what happened, Niall.”

He takes a deep breath, trying to find his voice and put strength behind his words. "Lord Cowell is Mr. Styles' uncle. He arrived out of nowhere a few days ago, the same day we were invited for another dinner at Lyme Park," he keeps going, talking about the way Harry had stared at him, the pool game and how Niall had foolishly allowed himself to hope. Talking with Nick in church, the proposal in the rain, and then the letter. He lets Sophia read that—he doesn’t want to hide anything about Liam from her, not when it might help her move on.

"You have had an eventful trip, haven't you?" she asks as she flips to the second page of the letter. Niall grunts, leaning back until he's flat on the bed and staring up at the ceiling. There's a spiderweb in the corner, lit by the sunlight, putting the spider diligently catching a stray bug and wrapping it in its silvery web on display. Niall feels quite like that bug, trapped and struggling in a web he never saw coming until it was too late.

"I shouldn't have let Holly stop me from leaving for London. I would've rather been with you, even if it meant throttling Tomlinson, than stayed and dealt with," he motions to the letter, "all that."

Sophia hums, folding the letter back up and handing it over to him, "I wouldn't have let you throttle Mr. Tomlinson. I promise, Niall, I'm not upset about anything he said. If anything, I think he said something that I’d avoided even thinking about despite it being true."

"But Liam—"

Her half-smile fades, melting like lingering bits of snow under the sun, "It's—I shall forget about him soon enough. Time heals all things, right?"

"If Harry hadn't—"

"Mr. Styles was wrong to make assumptions like that, Niall. But," she pauses, looking away at the window, and her shoulders sag when she sighs, "if Mr. Payne was so easily swayed by what Mr. Styles said without even talking to me—or even talking to _you_ about those concerns—first then perhaps it's just another sign that he didn't feel the same way I felt."

"Ah, Soph," Niall tugs her down against his chest, tucking her head under his chin, “I’m sorry.”

"I'll be alright, Niall, I promise," her voice is crackling but firm. He knows she'll be alright eventually because Sophia's strong, but she shouldn't have to be. Perhaps Niall would rather be strong _for_ her than deal with himself. “Will you be alright?”

Isn’t that the question of the hour? Niall swallows, “I think so. I just…need time to wrap my head around it all, I think.” He just learned too much in too short of a time span without any time to really comprehend it in between. He’s not sure he’ll really be able to figure out the entirety of his emotions until everything’s gotten a chance to settle in his brain. She hums, gently smoothing out a wrinkle in his shirt with her fingers. "Do you think I'm mad for turning him down?" he adds before he's even thought the words through. He squeezes his eyes shut, blocking out the view of the ceiling and stifling the way his eyes want to tear up.

"Who, Mr. Styles?" he nods, "No, Niall, I don't think you were mad at all. It's not like you like the man, right?" He shakes his head. It's half a lie but only because he _could_ have. If he'd let himself do it. If he hadn't learned that Harry despised him just as much as he supposedly loved him. "Just because he's above us, just because it's a match that would've made Mama faint, doesn't mean you should've demeaned yourself and agreed to it," he feels Sophia's hand on his cheek again and his breath trips in his chest, growing thick in his throat, "And just because _he_ said he loved you doesn't mean that you should've compromised on what _you_ want, Niall."

He swallows, grateful that her head's still on his chest and she can't see the way his lip is wobbling. "You'll find someone, Niall, someone who loves you _properly_ and who you love back. I'm sure of it," he can almost believe her when she says it like that, even as some part of him closes the book on the possibility.

"So do you, sis," he breathes out, rubbing her arm, "'m sorry I convinced you to go to London. I thought more of Mr. Payne, I guess."

"Don't apologize, Niall, you couldn't—you didn't know. I didn't either. I suppose I just hoped," he feels a wet splotch on his shirt, accompanied by the slightest tremble in his sister's shoulders. He hugs her a little tighter. He knows what that's like now, to have your hope torn out of your throat and spat right back in your face, only he’s sure that she built up a lot more hope than he ever had. "And it wasn't all bad, really," she clears her throat, "They took me to the Vauxhall Gardens. You would love it there…"

He focuses on her voice, familiar as an old song he was born knowing, as she goes on about London and tries to push away the cold ache in his gut. Sophia will be alright. And if she’ll be alright, then he'll be alright one day too.

He might die alone, but he'll be alright.

///

"Well?" Harry asks when Nick returns earlier than he expected from the errand Harry had sent him on. He couldn't bring himself to go over to the Collins' house to see if Niall were there, if he'd read the letter and maybe, _possibly_ rethought things. Which is an idiotic hope, because Niall saying that Harry was the last man he'd ever marry is on a permanent loop inside Harry's mind. He doubts that his letter will change that. But he'd thought maybe—maybe it could soften things, somehow. He didn’t think Niall could ever sound that sharp, that _angry,_ and he’s felt torn open ever since. Harry shouldn't care what Niall thinks about him anymore, but there's an icy ache that's been sitting in his chest ever since Niall walked away from him in the rain. If this is what falling in love gets him—well, he won't be made a fool of twice.

"I hate to tell you this, truly," Nick starts, his voice soft, and Harry's stomach drops. "Mrs. Collins told me that Mr. Horan decided to leave early. Said he got back from his morning walk and told her that he'd received news that he needed to figure out back at home and he caught the first mail coach out. She said he seemed unusually upset but wouldn’t explain why," Harry swallows down the knot in his throat, "I'm sorry, Harry."

He'd told Nick what happened last night, drenched and pacing in his bedroom while Nick watched but didn't—for once—provide any running commentary or witty input. He’d simply sat in silence as Harry ranted (incomprehensibly, he’s sure) and had only left when Harry had kicked him out to scribble out that letter down, a letter that apparently made Niall run. And now he's gone.

Now he's gone and the world feels a little darker, a little colder, in his absence. Harry shakes his head, running his hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face. "Nothing to be said about it now, I suppose. What's done is done. If he read it, that’s what matters. It was all I asked of him anyway. I appreciate you going over there for me, Nick." Before Nick can say anything else, offer any words of comfort or (even worse) pity, Harry darts from the room, heading at a half-sprint back to his bedroom and passing Caroline in the hallway without stopping for a hello. Once the door is shut, he sinks against it.

He fell in love with Niall without wanting to, without _meaning_ to. Surely it will be a simple matter to fall _out_ of love if he's doing it intentionally. It's not like Harry's ever going back to Congleton now and Niall doesn't come to London. He'll never see him again. The words echo in the empty space that is his chest, his hollowed-out rib cage. He’ll never see Niall again.

Soon, Niall will just be a memory, an image in his mind, a story to reminisce about. Something to chuckle and shake his head over. The charming Irish man who’d strutted into Harry’s life and stolen his heart out from under him will fade away eventually.

He'll forget about those blue eyes and that loud laugh and the way Niall had grinned at him during that pool game. He'll forget about Niall’s musical accent and his unruly hair and the way Harry's existence burned a little brighter whenever they touched. He’ll even forget about the future he was starting to dream about for them and the way it felt to be in love for the first time in his life. He wishes he could say that he’s already falling out of love with Niall, but it’s not true. Not yet. Forgetting has to come first, he thinks.

Harry tilts his head against the door, digs his nails into his fists until it hurts and uses the pain to distract himself from the way his eyes are welling up, tears spilling out even when he squeezes his eyes shut.

He'll forget Niall. It will be easy.

It has to be.

///

Congleton's never been so boring as it is in the weeks and months after Niall and Sophia return home. Sophia withdraws entirely into her politest shell, like she's a character from a handbook on proper society manners brought to life. There's never a hair out of place, never a crack in her composure, never an expression on her round face that isn't _pleasant._ And Niall—well, Niall copes in his own ways. He writes songs in his bedroom until his fingers bleed, doubles his visits to the tavern (but stays permanently away from the pool table), devotes himself to the wellbeing of his family. They both do, really, throwing themselves wholeheartedly into the same thing they’ve devoted most of their lives to—making sure that Little Moreton keeps functioning.

And if he and Sophia cling to each other more, nobody comments on it. They're twins, after all, and the entirety of Congleton has long since considered them attached at the hip. As summer fades into fall and fall crumbles desolately into winter, their morning walks simply get bundled up more. There was never any _spoken_ agreement between them, but they don’t touch on what happened on their separate trips. Liam's name never leaves Sophia's lips and Niall talks like Harry never existed. Sophia pretends that she was never in love and Niall pretends that he never thought he _could've_ been. They manage. They're both quite good at that, having learned to _manage_ ever since their father had told them that they'd be leaving the only home they'd ever known to move to England.

Nobody in their family brings it up either, even when Sophia flinches every time their mother talks about how Mr. Payne proved to be such a disappointment or when Niall's breath catches any time their mother scoffs about "rude interlopers" like Mr. Styles. Ashlyn's the only one to notice that something's wrong, being the only person in the household not confined to a study, obsessed with marriage and gossip, or infatuated with the militia. But outside of lingering hugs and quiet reassurances that she's always there, she doesn't pry. Niall appreciates that about her, always has. For the first time in his life, he's trying to build up his own walls, just until he thinks that he’s sorted his head and heart out and can be open again without worrying about getting hurt.

It's not that he _misses_ Harry. He doesn't think it's possible to truly _miss_ something that you never had in the first place. And he _never_ had Harry, no matter what Harry had claimed to feel or want. Niall thinks he just…got a little too close to a dream without realizing it and woke up burned by the proximity. Sometimes, he catches his reflection in a mirror and wonders what would’ve happened if he'd said yes? Would he have nicer clothes, boots that weren't always scuffed and a cravat that some dignified butler would fix every morning into a pristine knot? Would he be waking up in some massive bed, Harry's lanky body next to him, listening to Harry's low voice murmuring "Good morning, husband" or, even worse, "I love you, Niall" but this time, Niall would believe him? He’s not sure whether those classify as dreams or nightmares.

Then there are times when he'll attend a gathering in town with his family, watch his youngest sisters run wild through the room, listen to his mother chatter far too loudly about things that are none of her business, and wonder if he should be doing _more_ to keep them in line. He brings it up once to his father, something hesitant about how his sisters' behavior reflects on them, and gets a shrug and a "No use herding sheep that don’t wish to be herded, son. You and Sophia do a good job at keeping things in line anyway." Niall bites his tongue, stopping himself from saying that it's never been _fair_ that he and Sophia have had to do the jobs their mother and father won't. There's no point in it.

There's no point in dwelling on any of it, really. That's what Niall tells his ceiling every time he wakes up in the middle of the night, pulse racing to the fading memory of whispered words and long fingers decked in expensive rings because when he's asleep, that turncoat of a heart he’s got decides it has free rein to go wild. Sure, he'll get off to the memories when he wakes up hard as a stone and panting out Harry's name, but that’s only because he's learned that trying to fantasize about someone faceless doesn't work. Maybe that's all he'll claim of Harry in the end: blurry, dreamt up illusions that make him come and only torture him a _little_ afterwards. He'd try to sleep with someone else in the village, but he's slept with everyone he’s interested in already. He has no doubt that Harry's replaced him with someone more pliable and posher because Harry’s world is London, where there’s a never-ending supply of people like that for him to choose from.

Zayn is no longer an option for Niall's attention either. Niall had tried to convince himself that he would still approach Zayn with an open mind, use Zayn's story _and_ Harry's story combined to try and figure out the truth. But the first time he sees Zayn in town flirting with a young woman with a significant dowry—according to Maura, who he trusts to have accurate information on the matter—using just as much softness and eagerness as he'd flirted with Niall, his good will goes flying out the window (rather like a pool ball). He’s not sure whether Zayn ever _actually_ liked him or if he just saw Niall as some sort of means to get back at Harry.

Their first meeting starts well enough, Zayn asking him where he'd been when he was away, murmuring about how he'd missed seeing Niall's face in town. "I was visiting my friend Holly, the one that got married," Niall replies, "They live in Sandbach, near Lyme Park."

"Ah, Lord Cowell's residence? I remember the man well. Never met a man so critical of everything in life," Zayn jokes, his smile still beautiful but less angelic to Niall now.

"He does love to give out advice," Niall pauses, toeing at the ground, "Mr. Styles and his friend Mr. Grimshaw visited as well unexpectedly."

It's there in the nervous way Zayn licks his lips, the ice that creeps just barely into his dark eyes. "You must not have welcomed that appearance, right? You care for the man about as little as I do."

Niall shrugs, "Perhaps he improves upon further acquaintance. He seemed quite different there." Up until Niall rejected his proposal, of course. The corner of Zayn's mouth twitches down but all he does is hum and change the subject. And that's that.

Niall's still perfectly polite to Zayn when their paths cross in town, but he doesn't make any more overtures for walks together or time in the park. He doesn't look for Zayn at town gatherings and tries to keep a closer eye on things whenever he sees Zayn in the group of militiamen surrounding Julia and Perrie. Sophia, the only person who knows about the letter, stands with him and is just as politely distant.

Otherwise, life goes on.

///

"It's not _fair!"_ Julia's whine is the first thing that greets Niall as he comes through the front door, arms laden with packages from town. He'd gone in to pick up food from the market, happy with his decision to go alone until he'd fully glanced at the list his mother and their cook had drawn up for him. He nearly runs straight into Julia when he rounds the hall corner. Lip wobbling, she hisses, "It's not _fair,_ Nialler!" before darting up the stairs.

Niall frowns, adjusting his grip on the packages as he heads towards the kitchen. He drops everything off with their incredibly grateful cook, who ruffles his hair like he's still a child and hands him a biscuit that he wouldn't turn down in a million years. He's licking shortbread crumbs off his fingers when the door to the parlor opens, un-muffling the tide of excited squeals he'd been ignoring. Sophia sticks her head out the door, "Oh good, there you are. Did you manage to get everything?"

"My arms are going to be useless tomorrow from carrying it all, but yes. Is something wrong?"

Perrie's head appears just under Sophia's arm, "Oh, I thought you were Jules. She must still be throwing a tantrum."

"A tantrum?"

While Sophia's expression doesn’t change, Niall recognizes the twitch at the corner of her mouth. She’s not pleased with whatever’s happened. Perrie waves a letter around, her grin positively blinding, "She's mad because the Nelsons invited _me_ to go to Hull as their special guest and not _her!"_

Oh _no._ He stares at Sophia, the slightly more _pronounced_ twitch in her lips, and knows that she's thinking the same thing. The Nelsons’ daughter is one of Perrie's closest friends, which is fine enough. But Sgt. Nelson is the leader of _the militia._ "Isn't it lovely?" their mother trills from within the parlor, "Our little Perrie, going off to Hull!"

"Can I get new dresses, Mama?" Perrie asks, flitting back into the parlor and towards their mother's excited squeal. Sophia steps out of the room entirely, closing the door.

" _Please_ try talking to Papa, Niall. I did my best, but he wasn't interested in listening to me and—”

"It will be a _disaster_ if she goes," Niall breathes. Sophia nods, biting her lip. She saw Harry's letter; she _knows_ how their reputation is seen now. Without proper supervision—which Niall _knows_ won't happen in Hull—there's no telling what trouble Perrie could get into. "I'll do my best, alright?"

"He's in his study."

"Where else would he be?" Niall mutters, pressing a kiss to Sophia's temple as he walks past her to his father's study. His father's head is bent low over his desk, the family ledger spread out in front of him along with haphazard piles of paper that Niall knows are probably bills. He looks up when Niall enters, pushing his spectacles higher up his nose.

Before Niall can even start, Bobby chuckles, "I presume you're here to follow in your sister's footsteps?"

"Papa, you _can't_ let Perrie go to Hull," even as he says it, Niall can already tell that this is a useless attempt. It's in the amusement in his father's eyes rather than interest. He's humoring Niall, not actually listening.

"Perrie will never rest until she's been allowed to travel outside of Congleton, see the world, and this is a way to do it at no great expense to me."

"Perhaps not an expense with money, but—you have to understand that she will make a _fool_ of herself there. A fool of _us._ There's no telling what trouble she'll get into and—" 

"I trust the Sergeant and his wife to keep an eye on her."

Niall runs his hand through his hair, "They _won't._ It's a full-time job, watching Perrie and her friends when they’re in public. The moment they have any freedom, surrounded by men in red coats—"

His father holds his hand up, "You and Sophia both worry too much, son. If she makes a fool of herself, maybe it will knock some sense into her head."

"And if it reflects back on the rest of us? You have to understand what people think of her, of Julia, of Mama—" he stops, snapping his jaw shut and looking away until Harry's voice fades from his head. ' _A reputation is only as good as the name attached to it, and both you and your twin are currently sharing a name with people seemingly intent on flagrantly ruining reputations.'_

"It's not like you to care about what other people think of us."

"I don't care what other people think of _me!_ That doesn't apply to my sisters."

"Even if her every breath isn't supervised, I doubt Perrie could get into enough trouble to _truly_ hurt the rest of us," Niall opens his mouth again but Bobby cuts over him, "I've made my decision, Niall. All will be well, you'll see."

Sophia's waiting on the other side of the study door and Niall knows that she heard the whole thing. "We're doomed," Niall says, leaning in until his face is pressed into her shoulder.

"I'll try my best to talk to her but Mama's just as excited so I don't know how much it will do. We'll just have to hope for the best, pray that she will use her common sense on what is and isn't appropriate."

"We're _doomed."_

///

Thunder crashes through the room, a cannon that breaks through the constant roar of the wind and rain beating against the windows. Harry scowls down at his book that he's barely been reading anyway. He's never enjoyed storms, but he enjoys them even _less_ in London. At home, storms leave that fresh scent in their aftermath, as if the whole world's been cleansed and purified again. A flood of biblical proportions likely wouldn't be enough to make London smell clean.

That last thought rings in his ears with a distinct Irish lilt, an accent he's heard nowhere outside his dreams for months now. He swallows, closing his eyes as another peal of thunder brings him back to that gazebo, to Niall pressing him up against the wall and turning down his proposal, saying that Harry was the last man he would ever marry. As much as Harry would love to forget that memory, erase it and Niall in general from his mind so he could maybe know some semblance of inner peace again, he can still recall it in perfect clarity. The fury and hurt in Niall's blue eyes, the way his shirt clung to his body from the rain, the warmth of his knuckles against Harry's throat, the way Harry had watched him stomp off into the storm with his fists clenched. It's not the last time he'd seen Niall, of course. That had been under the oak tree the following morning, when he'd handed over his attempt at vindication, but that had felt different. Watching Niall walk away from him at the gazebo had felt… _final._

He pinches the bridge of his nose. Forgetting Niall, contrary to his belief last year, has turned out to be not just difficult, but nigh _impossible._ He alternates on a regular basis. During the day, he curses the very existence of Niall Horan, unrestrained as he barged into Harry's life and tore it apart like he was a storm too, battering down the doors and crumbling all the walls Harry's spent so much time building up. At night though, when he stretches out in bed and tries to sleep, the ache comes in instead. It blooms in his chest, hollow and icy, making him think that Niall took all the warmth in the world when he'd left.

In another life, he wonders if they would've been sharing a bed by now. If he'd fall asleep every night with Niall holding him, making Harry feel safer and more whole than he’s ever been. It's not as if Harry hasn't dallied with people since then to try and dull the ache, old acquaintances that he can trust to share a night with without them expecting more, but it's not the same as it used to be. Everyone gets _compared_ now, held up against the measurement Harry doubts Niall even knew he'd created. He'd mocked Harry for his high standards, probably never knowing that he was creating higher ones at the same time.

"Harry?" he looks up, turning to the cracked door to his study to see his younger sister, Gemma, poking her dark head into the room. She's already dressed for bed, hair braided and tied with a pink ribbon over her shoulder.

"Did you need something, sis?" he asks as he puts his book down, slipping his silver bookmark in to keep his spot. His mother and sister had joined him in London about a month ago for his birthday, but they leave tomorrow for Capesthorne. Harry will follow eventually; he has some more business to conclude here and events to make appearances at for the next month or so that he can’t get out of. But he’s starting to get sick of London, starting to yearn more for the familiar safety of his childhood home, which is somewhat of a new sensation. Normally he thrives in the bustle of London, the parties every night and countless people surrounding him. Now it’s all just _noise,_ all the glittering extravagance turned dreary and vapid.

"My maid forgot to put the bedwarmer in, so my bed is frigid. I'm just trying to find a way to fill time until I can go to sleep in something other than an exceptionally soft icebox," she sits down next to him on the couch, curling up against his side like she always does.

"Shall I fire her? Toss her out into the rain as punishment for the indignity of you losing sleep?" he teases, ruffling Gemma's hair.

She smacks his thigh, "You'll do no such thing. I don't know what she uses, but the sachets she puts with my clothes smell incredible and I refuse to lose them. See?" She holds her arm up to his nose, letting him sniff the sleeve of her dressing gown. It does smell nice, light and floral with a hint of something spicy underneath it.

"Very well, I suppose I’ll let her stay. But if your bed isn't an oven when you return, I shall show no mercy," she smacks him again before resting her head on his shoulder.

"Do you trust me, brother?"

Harry blinks down at the crown of her head, watching the way the fire from his lit fireplace brings out the golden highlights in her hair, "Of course I do. I hope that you trust me too. Why do you ask?"

She twirls the velvet ribbon of her dressing gown around her finger, "Did something happen to you that you didn't tell me or Mum about? You've been so sad lately and I hate to see you like this." Gemma notices too much for her own good. She's still shy, though she's gotten much better in the years since Zayn. Harry thinks she might have spent all that time alone at Capesthorne studying up on how to read minds.

"Ah, it's complicated, Gem."

"I'm sure I can keep up, Bug," she retorts. Harry stares at the fireplace, watching the orange flames enveloping the blackening wood, crackling the bark into dust.

"When I went with Liam and Louis to stay at the new house Liam bought, I…met someone," she glances up at him, eyes wide, but he keeps his gaze on the fire, "His name was—well, _is_ Niall Horan." Saying Niall's name out loud is enough to make his heart stutter. But he forces his way past the knot in his throat, telling Gemma about how he and Niall met, how Niall had wormed his way into Harry's soul with that crooked smile and easy laugh. About Liam and Sophia, how he'd gotten in the way of their romance out of concern for his best friend and distrust of Niall and Sophia's family. About how Zayn had showed up in Congleton and charmed Niall far too much for Harry's liking. About meeting Niall at Lyme Park, suddenly more nervous than he'd been in ages just being in Niall's proximity, teaching him pool and daring to place his hand on Niall's back and getting that brilliant, heart-stopping grin. And about that stormy day, Niall's scathing rejection of both Harry's heart and proposal. "I'm not sure whether it's my pride or something else that still stings," Harry lies, knowing full well that at this point, it's _something else,_ "but I promise it will pass and I'll be back to normal eventually." 

Gemma's silent for a long moment, enough for Harry to get concerned (or worry that she fell asleep). She slowly slides away, turning to fully face him, "You are the world's biggest idiot, Harry Edward Styles."

"I—what?"

She hits him upside the head hard enough for him to gasp. "Did you honestly propose to him like that?" Gemma perfectly inherited their mother's _'Shame on you'_ expression and is currently using it to such great purpose that Harry almost forgets he's looking at his younger sister. He nods. "You utter _cad!"_ she puts her hands on her hips, "In what _world_ would _anyone_ have responded positively to a proposal like that, let alone a man like you've described? You proposed to him like it was painful to do it, like you were preemptively regretting it." 

"That's not true!" he hisses, "Was I supposed to lie about my concerns?"

"No, but you don't bloody lay them out like that! I'm surprised he didn't knock you on your arse then and there!"

"Language, Gemma," they both turn to see their mother in the doorway, eyebrow raised.

"It's not my fault that Harry is a fool, Mum. It got past my self-control. But I know you'll agree with me when you hear this," Harry chokes out Gemma's name, desperate to stop her, but she barrels on. "Harry met a man named Niall, fell in love with him, and decided to propose to the man by telling him that his family was horrible and beneath us, and that Harry didn't even _want_ to love him in the first place. And _also_ bragged about how he'd stopped Liam from proposing to the man's _twin sister._ "

"That is _not_ what I said!" he tries to sound firm but he's already withering under the look his mother's giving him, “…For the most part.”

Anne licks her lips, the telltale sign of an incoming lecture, "Then what _did_ you say, darling?"

"I said that his family was below mine and _very_ poorly behaved, both of which are _true._ And I said that I'd tried not to love him because it was less than an ideal match, but I _couldn't,"_ his mother's expression doesn't change in the slightest, which does not bode well for his protests, "And I didn't _brag_ about stopping Liam from proposing to Niall’s sister, I just didn't apologize and said I had no regrets which I _didn't_." He might now though, having seen Liam's face fall when Louis had let slip that Sophia Horan came to London looking for him. He wasn't aware it was possible for Liam to look _that_ crushed.

" _Harry,"_ Anne starts.

"I wasn't going to _lie_ to him! He deserved honesty."

"There's a difference between kind and _brutal_ honesty, sweetheart," Anne says as she sits on Gemma's other side, "Quite frankly, I don't blame him for turning you down. If your father _or_ stepfather had proposed to me like that, I would've been humiliated."

"I told Niall that I loved him though! Regardless of everything else!"

" _But_ you said it like it was the worst thing that ever happened to you, which is hardly romantic. I mean, did you tell him any of the _reasons_ that you loved him, or just all the reasons you _shouldn't?"_ Gemma asks, poking his side.

Harry opens his mouth, ready to defend himself again, but—well, he _didn't._ He feels his cheeks heat and looks back at the fire. Oh. Perhaps that would've helped things.

_Damn,_ he's a fool.

"Are you sure that you loved him in the first place? Are you sure that you weren't just infatuated?" his mother asks.

"I wish it were mere infatuation. If it were, I wouldn't—I wouldn't still feel like this. I wouldn't miss him so much," Harry's been infatuated before. That passes, especially with time and distance, an illness that you can recover from. Niall's buried too deep in Harry's heart for it to be a simple attraction. He clasps his hands between his legs, so cold inside that he feels like throwing himself into the fire entirely. Letting himself burn. "His family is Irish; they'd moved here when his father had inherited land but they're far from rich or well-connected. Most of them had no grasp on manners or dignity, looked like _fools_ at the ball Liam threw just to impress Niall's twin. I've seen toddlers with more restraint," he pauses, pinching his lip, "Niall had the bluest eyes I've ever seen. They put the sky to shame, and they were so _bright,_ showed so much of his emotions. His laugh lit up every room and he could tell the most pitifully boring story and make it sound fascinating. He cared so much about his family, even when they were being embarrassing or talking poorly about _him_ , but cared so little for impressing anyone else. He didn't care to impress _me_ at all, argued with half the things I said to him, but he was never cruel about it and I _liked_ it. Being near him was like being outside on a sunny day, warm and bright and _easy_ , and if I could have, I think I would've spent every minute with him. I loved him. I _love_ him. I'm quite sure of that. Perhaps…perhaps I should've told him the rest."

Gemma gives him a look that conveys the word _obviously_ without her even having to open her mouth. "If you still love him, why don't you reach out to him? Explain everything properly this time?" Anne's voice has softened, pure motherly concern, and Harry wonders just how pitiful he looks right now.

He sighs, "I doubt it would do much. He told me that I was the last man he would ever marry."

"Well, that was _before_ you told him any of what you just told us, right?"

"Yes, but—I think I missed my chance in general. Even if he forgave me for offending him, I doubt he would forgive me for my actions regarding his sister. And he—he knows Zayn, believed the worst of me thanks to whatever story Zayn spun him. I wrote him a letter to explain what truly happened the morning after our _discussion_ , but he left before I could see him again. I don't know whether he believed me or not," Gemma squirms on the sofa, leaning back towards Anne, "Don't worry. I wouldn't have said anything if I didn't trust Niall's discretion entirely. I know he'll say nothing of it." At most, he thinks Niall would tell Sophia since they seemed to have no secrets between the two of them, and he's positive that Sophia would be equally silent on the matter.

"Well, perhaps you'll meet again at some point."

Harry hums, "Perhaps. Until then, I just have to hope that this all passes."

Anne gets up, pulling Gemma to her feet as well. She leans in and presses a tender kiss to Harry's forehead, like he's 5 again instead of 25. "That's the thing about love, bug. If it's real, it doesn't pass," she pats his cheek and then leads Gemma out of the room, murmuring something about the bedwarmer being done. Harry's left alone, just him and the fire and the storm outside. If love doesn't pass, all he can do is learn to live with it better, make friends with Niall's ghost living in his heart and his now overwhelming regret over what he didn't say.


	5. It took me some time but I figured out how to fix up a heart that I let down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Niall stumbles on Harry, Harry gets a second chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from One Direction's Where Do Broken Hearts Go
> 
> (This chapter is the NSFW chapter)

At least he's not traveling in a mail coach this time. Niall tilts his head against the window of the carriage, watching the hills roll by. Spring is finally digging its heels in, forcing back the lingering chill of winter with a sea of vibrant green leaves on the trees and white and yellow daisies scattered along the edge of the road.

The Millers had come to visit and offered to bring him back to their house for a few weeks for a "fresh change of pace." Niall's not entirely unconvinced that Sophia had no part in it either since she’s been commenting more and more on his restlessness lately and she’d pushed him to accept the offer when he’d talked to her about it. Her permission didn’t entirely remove his guilt, but he didn’t want to argue it with her either.

He supposes that he could've gone back to visit Holly again, make up for the fact that he left Sandbach earlier than he was supposed to last year, but he doesn't think he could tolerate any more dinners at Lyme Park. He's had enough of that judgement for a lifetime. He tried inviting Sophia too, but they'd quietly agreed that one of them should stay at the house as much as possible to try and keep things in order.

"I can't remember the last time you came to visit us, Niall," Laura muses, fingers nimbly working a needle and thread through her embroidery hoop.

"I'm sure it's been a few years."

"Few years too long!" Willie says, voice booming in the carriage. Niall's got half a headache, but he smiles anyway as Willie starts talking about everything they can do once they arrive in Cranage. Niall's not nearly as interested in fishing as Willie is, since fishing involves being quiet and still for long stretches of time, but he'll figure out how to endure it. Perhaps he’ll just do what his father does: stick the fishing pole in the ground, pull a hat over his face, and fall asleep.

The Miller's house is much as he remembers from whenever that last visit was. A modest house, a little bigger and more refined than Greg and Holly's cottage and better cared for than Little Moreton. He's shown up to a guest room and given some time to "unpack" or, more realistically, lie across the soft mattress and thick blankets to stare at the ceiling. He should just accept this trip as the sabbatical it is from the noise and action of Little Moreton, but he's starting to worry that all that chaos was the only thing distracting him from himself. He's been diligent in his efforts to avoid being alone with his own thoughts and choosing to come here may have just made that more difficult. Willie and Laura's children moved out ages ago, married off and started families the way children are _supposed_ to, so Niall doesn't have anyone here his age to interact with. He'll have to check and see if there's a tavern or something in town that he can spend some time in. Hopefully, he wouldn't have to travel into Holmes Chapel to find one.

It's not that he thinks Harry would be in taverns _anywhere,_ let alone in his hometown, but he might run into someone who _knows_ Harry and God knows what would happen then.

"Damn it all," he grumbles, rubbing his face. _This_ is why he needs to be around more people. His mind is already wandering places it shouldn't in this moment of solitude, trying to unlock the thoughts that he's worked so hard to shut away over the last few months. He sits back up, opening his trunk and doing a perfunctory job of putting his clothes in the dresser before wandering back downstairs.

"Settled in?" Laura asks as he enters their drawing room.

"For the most part, yes," he sinks onto the sofa, sagging down into the thick navy cushions and sighing, "Traveling always takes a lot out of me, especially being cramped in a carriage."

"Well, you handled it well. And I do hope that you enjoy being out here," Laura's embroidering again, bringing a bouquet of flowers to vivid life on the white fabric. Niall raises his eyebrow, all too able to hear the leading edge in her voice. She shrugs, "Sophia's worried about you." He knew it. As he chews on his nail, Laura prepares another needle with a thin line of green thread, "She said you haven't been yourself and thought you could use a break."

"It's—I'll be fine. 've just got a lot on my mind lately," most of which are pointless thoughts meant solely to take up space in the ramshackle attic that is his head, his best attempts at throwing blankets over broken pieces of a mental mirror just so he can avoid looking at himself.

Laura smiles, "Another reason why you should get married, dear. When you're married, you can share your thoughts with someone legally required to carry their weight."

"That why you married Willie?"

"Of course not. That's why _he_ married _me,"_ she says with a laugh. Niall chuckles, glancing at a painting of their house hanging over the mantle. "I do mean it though, Niall. I hope that being here helps soothe whatever's been troubling you lately. Do whatever you need to do to find your peace. We’ll give you as much or as little space as you require."

"Peace," he murmurs, testing the word on his tongue, "I suppose we'll see. Might just disappear for hours on end to wander around the hills and fields here."

"The land here has much to recommend it. We can go on some hikes or drives if you like. Willie's got an open carriage too if you don't want to spend the entire time in a closed one."

"I'd appreciate that. Nothing like fresh air, really."

"Agreed!" Willie says as he enters, immediately handing Niall a glass of brandy he probably poured before coming in, "Think about that every time we come back from Town." Willie settles into an armchair with a grateful sigh and a little wiggle, almost like a housecat returning to its favorite spot.

"I know my father appreciates you being our business contact in London," Niall takes a slow sip of brandy, feeling the alcohol burn at the back of his throat, warmth lingering on his tongue.

Willie kicks his feet up on a foot stool, "I don't think there's enough money in the world to get your father to go to London frequently. Irish through and through, he is, and not interested in what Town has to offer."

"Can't say I disagree with him on that bit. If you'd offered to take me there instead of here, I would've turned you down," and, he can say with honesty, _not_ because of the fear of seeing Harry. Niall has no desire to be in a place like London right now. He might not want to be alone with his thoughts, but he _certainly_ doesn’t want to be drowning in a sea of people either.

"Well, we're quite glad you're here. Make yourself at home, Niall, and take the chance to breathe," Laura's eyes flick up to him for just a moment as if she _knows_ somehow. Niall can't remember the last time he felt like he was really _breathing._ But he’s got a horrible suspicion that it was while holding a pool cue in one hand, flushed and eager as a schoolboy to earn a smile.

"I quite agree. Speaking of taking chances to breathe, what do you say about a spot of fishing tomorrow?" Willie leans forward, bushy eyebrows waggling like he's just offered Niall an all-expenses paid trip to the highest-class brothel in England.

"Still no good at fishing," or interested in it at all, "but I'll give it my best shot." Willie holds his glass up in a toast, Laura rolls her eyes, and Niall hopes that his grin looks more natural than it feels.

///

"Whose house is that?" Niall asks, gaze stuck on the sprawling red brick house stretched out over a perfect expanse of grass as if it's been there since the dawn of time. The sunlight catching on every window almost seems to wink back at him, as if it caught him staring and is just daring him to come closer. True to Laura’s offer, they’ve been taking him on tours and hikes of the surrounding area on an almost daily basis. The fresh air _is_ helping more than he thought it would and it’s nice to talk to people that aren’t his family but also aren’t trying to pry past his defenses to figure out what’s got him all twisted up.

Willie stops their carriage, the horses snuffling at the indignity of being halted on such a lovely day. "Ah, that's Capesthorne Hall, where the Styles family lives," Niall feels his cheeks burning and tears his eyes away. He didn't think he'd stumble on Harry’s home like this and now he feels like a child caught doing something naughty, as if he were never meant to lay eyes on the place. 

"Lovely house, isn't it?" Laura asks, tucking her hair behind her ear.

"Yes, it's lovely," Niall mutters, biting his nail, "Anyway, we should—"

"We should go visit; I agree!" Laura's brown eyes are sparkling, and Niall hates-hates- _hates_ that she's able to read him so easily.

"I daresay you're right. Been a while since we've seen the family, hasn't it?" Willie muses, oblivious as ever.

"Yes, and I would dearly love to catch up with Anne," Laura adjusts her bonnet on her head, tightening the perfect bow under her chin, "Unless you have any objections, Niall?"

"I just don't want to be rude, you know. Showing up unannounced. They may not even be home and then we'd look like fools," it's weak but it's the best excuse he can come up with since the truth—"I rejected their son's proposal so thoroughly that he’ll probably despise me forever"—will only make his current situation worse.

Laura waves her gloved hand, like his protests are a fly she’s swatting away, "Don't be ridiculous. Even if they aren't home, we can tour the grounds at least. Ooh—or see their gallery! They've got such a lovely art collection. Do turn down their drive, Willie." Willie shakes the reins, and the horses stir into motion again, the rhythm of their hooves on the dirt road matching the pounding of Niall's heart against his ribs. He slouches on the bench seat, suddenly all too aware that his jacket (currently folded in his lap) is worn and his pants are dusty, the navy fabric speckled with brown and gray. Damn it all, he’s not _supposed_ to care about any of that. "Don't you worry about a thing, love. I'm good friends with their housekeeper, Louise, and she'll be happy to show us around if none of the family are home. The house is even grander on the inside, just you wait," Laura says, patting his arm. Niall fights the urge to pout, to demand that they keep going or at least let him get out and walk back to their home. He knows it's a good two or three miles away, but if he starts now then he'll probably make it back before nightfall.

He just doesn't want to run the risk of running into _Harry._ This is the worst way they could encounter each other again: Niall, living up to every terrible notion Harry had of him and his improper family, arriving without notice or invitation on Harry's doorstep to wander through the halls of his house. He chews harder on his nail, tearing a little strip of skin off and tasting the bitter copper of blood on his tongue. Laura slaps his hand away, tutting about ungentlemanly habits as their carriage pulls ever closer to Capesthorne Hall.

It's only more intimidating up close, looming over Niall just like Harry did, so grand that Niall feels utterly insignificant in its shadow. There's a voice in his head reminding him that he could've been the master of this house had he not turned Harry down, and another voice instantly rebutting that Harry's proposal had been so insulting that Niall never would've forgiven himself for agreeing. He pictures Sophia at home, her smile permanently tinged with sadness now, and uses that to push and shove back any other lingering fantasies just as he's been doing every night for the past few months.

Willie pulls their carriage to a stop in front of the house and hops down, already extending a hand to help Laura out as well. Niall steps down on his side, nervously unrolling his sleeves and tugging his jacket back on. It's as close as he can get right now to looking presentable but still miles away from where he knows he _should_ be. His mother would tear him to shreds if she could see him right now. Laura takes Willie's arm and heads for the front doors, leaving Niall no choice but to hustle behind them, praying frantically that nobody in the family will be home. He can handle a walk around the grounds or the art gallery, do his best to make both quick just so they can leave as quickly as politeness allows.

The moment he set foot here, he threw his dice into a dangerous game and all he can hope to do is bow out before he loses everything.

They're let into the house by a butler whose moustache is waxed so expertly that Niall almost thinks it's carved from stone. He doesn't miss the way the man's eyes linger on him, undoubtedly categorizing every flaw in his appearance, before saying, "Apologies but the family is not home at the moment. However—"

"Laura!" a voice calls from the far end of the entrance hall, "Oh, how lovely to see you!" Niall pokes his head from behind Willie, watching as a woman with pale hair, the color even more stark against the black of her uniform, comes towards them.

Laura's laugh echoes off the cream walls, "And same to you, Louise. I hope we're not being too nosy with our unexpected visit, but we have a family friend staying with us and I thought it was only right to show him the most beautiful house in Holmes Chapel." Louise comes to a stop in front of them and drops into a flawless curtsy.

"You're not being nosy at all. The family always loves visitors, you know that," Louise says with a bright smile. Her eyes flicker to Niall, "I take it that this is your family friend?"

Willie pats Niall on the back so hard Niall grunts, "That it is. Niall Horan, son of my business partner. He and his family live out in Congleton."

"Mr. Horan," Louise draws his name out in a speculative way that Niall _knows_ means she knows who he is. Maybe Harry’s put his name on some sort of “do not enter” list for Capesthorne and Louise is about to break a cardinal rule by allowing him entrance. She curtsies again, "Welcome to Capesthorne Hall, sir."

"Um, thank you," Niall croaks, fighting the urge to bite his nails again.

"I was telling Niall on the way in about the family's art gallery. I know they're not home, but do you think they'd mind terribly if we took a look around?" Laura asks, already winding her arm in Willie's again.

"Not at all! Please, this way," Louise walks at a brisk pace, heels clicking on the marble floor, "You're in luck, you know. Mr. Styles just had some new art pieces sent from London that we recently put up." Niall nearly trips at the mention of Harry, casual as it is, and his heart skips harder. He shouldn't _be_ here. Louise leads them up a flight of wide stone steps to the second floor, and down a seemingly endless hallway lit by sunlight gleaming through every smudge-less window. She opens a set of doors on their right, leading them into a cavernous room with high ceilings that make their footsteps sound even louder. "And here we are," she welcomes them in, gesturing with her arm to the art scattered on the walls. Laura and Willie immediately start walking, clearly acquainted with the old art here and eager to see the new pieces.

Niall moves more slowly, taking in landscapes and still life paintings, a portrait of an older man with wiry hair and a bushy beard, a sculpture of a regal woman with a veil that looks almost too real. He pauses in front of a family portrait, unable to skip over it when he sees Harry's face perfectly captured on the canvas. He's standing with two women, one seated in a gold chair in front of him and the other standing at his side. "That would be the master of the house with his mother and sister," Louise's voice comes from behind him, making Niall jump, and it's a bloody miracle that he stops himself from swearing. He thinks Laura would fly across the entire room to smack him.

"It's, ah, a very fine portrait," he says, eyes drawn again to Harry. The artist managed to capture the natural light in his eyes, the slight crookedness of his smile that Niall only saw in real life a handful of times.

"I believe you've met Mr. Styles, yes? Your name sounded familiar," Niall nods, biting his tongue to hold back what he knows would be terrible excuses for how he met Harry.

After a moment to breathe, to hold back anything that would expose his heart for this stranger's eyes, he says, "How long have you worked for the Styles?"

"I've been the housekeeper for nearly a decade now. My mother was the housekeeper before me though, so I've known the family since I was a child. I've watched both children grow up—I'm only a handful of years younger than Mrs. Styles," Niall glances back at her, taking in the faint lines at the corner of her eyes and lips. She smiles back at him, "I truly don't know better people than the Styles, Mr. Horan. Mrs. Styles is always so kind to everyone she meets, Miss Styles is the picture of gentleness and charity, and I don't know that I've ever met a man so _good_ to his very core as Mr. Styles."

Niall hums, fingers twitching at his side with the desire to reach out and touch the painting as if it would be as warm as Harry was. He remembers dancing with Harry at the Gawsworth ball, the warmth of his hands every time they brushed against each other, the smell of his cologne that lingered in Niall's senses for the rest of the night. It feels like a lifetime ago now. "Did you know Mr. Malik as well?" he asks instead.

Louise's eyes narrow as she snorts, arms crossing over her chest, "I did. Such a shame how he turned out. Mr. Styles was far more generous than he should've been, in my opinion. Mr. Malik was always so _proud,_ so ungrateful."

"I've met him as well," Niall whispers, "He can be…very convincing, very charming when he wants to be." Niall's increasingly ashamed of how easily he fell for Zayn's words, his innocent eyes and angelic voice.

Louise’s scowl says it all, "Oh, we're all well aware of that. But he's well and truly gone now, and I hope he never steps foot in Capesthorne ever again. If he tried, I worry it would result in a duel at sunrise, especially if Mrs. Styles weren’t here to break things up again. Mr. Styles is ever so protective of his sister."

"I have four sisters, so I can certainly relate to that," he thinks again of Perrie, off in Hull with what he _knows_ is minimal supervision, and hates the dark churn in his stomach.

When they're finished in the art gallery, Louise lets them onto the back patio for afternoon tea. Niall manages to tolerate it for a while, but then his usual jitters in these situations rise and he takes his leave to go explore the grounds on his own. It’s warm enough outside that he leaves his jacket at the table, deciding that mild impropriety is worth being more comfortable (and it’s not as if anyone’s judging him right now either). Willie offers to join him, but Niall turns him down, both because he’d like to get some time alone to try and find his equilibrium again and because he doesn’t need someone to point out what the garden is or God forbid, find some body of water to dream about fishing in.

As beautiful as the grounds here are, there's something almost too manicured about them. Every line is too straight, each bush trimmed so exactly that he thinks it must take hours for a gardener to trim each leaf to the same length and size. He thinks of Little Moreton, the unruly grass that refuses to be tamed by man and the vines of ivy crawling up the walls, and has to swallow down that pang of homesickness. He rolls his sleeves up to his elbows again and runs his hand through his hair, trying to at least tame it in one direction even as the breeze is doing its best to overrule his efforts.

He wanders through the nearby garden first, stepping into a cloud of delicate flowers, their scents tangled and almost overwhelming. It's an explosion of colors, every hue of the rainbow captured on flawless petals and arranged neatly in flower beds. Niall lingers on a stone bench for a while, watching butterflies and bees flitting between blossoms. Sophia would love this place, he's sure of that. She would sit here with him for hours, until they were both reddened from the sun and left with more freckles than their mother could stand. His twin would belong in a place like this too, always the most dignified of all of them, while Niall can’t help but feel like an interloper.

On his way out of the garden, he dares to meddle with the garden’s perfection by plucking a small bunch of forget-me-nots and worrying the stem between his fingers as he leaves. Maybe he just wants to make some sort of mark on the place, or perhaps he’s trying to take something small that will anchor him and remind him that this was all _real_ when he’s back at the Miller’s house tonight. He’s dancing too close to that dream again, the awareness that this could’ve been his home lingering on the edges of his mind, and maybe having something tangible will help keep him grounded.

He gets lost in the flowers as he walks, tracing the silk soft blue petals, the curling edges that always lead back to the bright sunshine yellow centers, with his fingers. He doesn't even realize that he's stumbled near a pond until he hears splashing. He pauses, worrying his lip between his teeth, and then heads towards the sound. It's probably just birds, but he thinks that sitting by a pond and watching birds swim around for a while sounds like the perfect sequel to his time in the garden.

He pushes his way through the hanging leaves of a weeping willow and finds a small pile of clothes on the ground next to a slightly dirty pair of riding boots, laces tucked neatly in the top. Frowning, he glances over at the pond to see—

_Harry._

Harry, staring back at him with a slack mouth and bare chest, wet hair pulled into a dark, lopsided knot on the top of his head. Niall stares back, tongue utterly useless in his mouth. "Niall?" Harry asks, walking towards him, water rippling around his waist, "Is that—what are you doing here?" He looks like a mythical thing, a fantasy that’s not disappearing no matter how many times Niall tries to blink the vision away.

At least he doesn't sound angry or offended by Niall's audacity to exist in his space again. Niall gulps, words tumbling out of his lips, "Sorry! I wasn't planning on being here, really. I'm visiting family friends in the area—the Millers, don't know if you know them, but your housekeeper does and they insisted on stopping by because I noticed your house and then they kept talking about the art gallery and your housekeeper said that nobody was home so it wouldn't be an issue if we walked around and they're all having tea but I got bored so I decided to walk and I'm sorry for taking flowers but—" He snaps his mouth shut before he manages to embarrass himself any further with more incoherent rambling. With the way the sunlight is dancing on the water drops slipping down Harry's firm chest, he doesn't think his brain could take any more incoherency. How did Harry manage to get _prettier?_ "S-sorry," he squeaks out one last time.

Harry shakes his head. Niall wishes he could figure out Harry’s expression because that would at least give him a hint of what happens next. Instead, he’s left to squirm under the heat of Harry’s stare as the older man says, "No, it's—don't apologize, please. I was in town, but I decided to come home early. And then the ride was hot, so I thought I'd take a swim and—and so I did." So he did. He's fully out of the water now and Niall looks back down at his little clump of flowers to stop himself from looking too long at the way Harry's breeches are clinging to his long legs, leaving _extraordinarily little_ to the imagination. "How are you?" perhaps it's just the hesitation in Harry's voice that's making this feel even more awkward.

"Me?” there’s nothing remotely manly or dignified about the squeak in his voice, “I'm, um, I'm well, thank you. Yourself?"

"I'm also well," they stare at each other again. Harry's rocking on his heels, bare feet buried in the thick grass, hands clenched at his side like he's not sure what to do with them.

Unable to take any more of this tension, Niall swallows, "I should, um, I should go. Find the Millers and be on our way. It's almost dinner and I don't want to impose on you any further." He takes a step back, stumbling just a little even though the ground is perfectly even under his feet. Clearly, time, distance, and anger did nothing to prevent his knees from going weak around Harry.

"Don't go!" Harry protests. His cheeks flush deep, rosy pink that makes his eyes even greener in comparison, "I mean, there's no need for you to rush out so soon. There’s always room for more people at our table and our cook—she adores having more mouths to feed. And my mother and sister should be home shortly! I'm sure they'd both love to meet you." Niall thinks his face might be on fire with how hot his cheeks are. Harry bends over, grabbing his shirt and tugging it over his head, arms struggling for just a moment with the sleeves. Niall manages to stop from chuckling, hiding his smile behind the flowers. Harry hooks his black jacket over his arm and picks up his boots before trotting over. "It's good to see you again, Niall," he whispers when they're mere inches apart, far too close to be proper, "You look—you look well."

Niall can’t move, even when he knows he should probably take a step back and try to get a little bit of space just for his own protection. But he stays where he is, staring up at Harry while his heart tries to beat out of his chest. He manages to get his mouth working enough to rasp out a weak “Thank you.”

Harry glances down at the bunch of flowers clenched in Niall’s hand and reaches out to snap a single blossom off the stem with his fingers. He spins the flower for a moment before tentatively tucking it behind Niall's ear. The motion is too gentle, too _intimate,_ knuckles barely brushing against Niall's cheek. "Matches your eyes," Harry breathes out. Niall licks his lips; he can't breathe, not when Harry's this close and his green eyes are flicking down to Niall's mouth and Niall just… _wants_. He wants _everything,_ feels like he might be losing himself entirely in the sea of his desire _._

"There you are Niall!" Willie's voice shatters the little bubble they'd ended up in. Niall jumps back, hand automatically reaching up not to take the flower out, but to make sure that it _stays in place._ Which is foolish, because now Willie's going to see him standing here like a child, clutching a tiny bouquet of flowers with one tucked behind his ear with Harry standing next to him, cheeks flushed and still dripping wet and it will look _foolish._ "Ah! What a pleasant surprise, Mr. Styles," then again, he should’ve counted on Willie being oblivious. His grin is nothing but friendly, stretched wide on his cheeks, "We'd been told you were in Town."

Harry clears his throat, "Yes, I was. I decided to make an early return home."

"Don't blame you, lad. Country life is so pleasant compared to the bustle of London," Willie pauses, tilting his head, and Niall is sure that they're going to be teased until Willie says, "How's that pond when it comes to fishing?"

Niall doesn't groan, at least, but his expression is enough to make Harry's lips curl in a little secret half-smile, "Best fishing in Holmes Chapel, if I do say so myself. I always keep the pond well-stocked." Harry glances back at Niall, eyes lingering on the flower pressed against his temple, "You're welcome to fish here any time you like—provided that you join my family for dinner tonight." Niall wheezes as subtly as possible (which is not very subtle).

Willie chuckles, "Now that's a business deal that I'm happy to make, lad. And Laura will be ever so pleased, I'm sure."

"Not as pleased as I am," Harry replies, smiling at Niall once more before starting to walk towards the house.

“What a pleasant surprise, hmm?” Willie questions, “You were worrying about our reception for nothing. Laura will be absolutely delighted to know that we’ve been invited to stay for dinner.” Niall hums weakly, pushing himself forward on wobbly legs towards the house. This is either going to be a complete disaster or—or it won’t be. He doesn’t know what that would mean and the possibility of finding out is leaving him nauseous.

///

Niall is _here._ In Holmes Chapel. At Capesthorne Hall.

At _Harry's home._

Harry paces the length of his bedroom again, trying to find any semblance of composure before he can even think about rejoining the party. He'd taken a bath just to make sure that he didn’t smell like pond and then caught up on some correspondence while his hair dried, all while painfully aware that Niall is _here._ Harry keeps expecting to blink and find himself back in the pond, turning at the sound of footsteps only to find his mother or sister, one of the servants even, instead of Niall. He absently rubs his chest, the velvet of his jacket soft against his palm, muffling the sensation of his heart beating. He's gotten so used to that cold ache in his chest that's lingered for months after that rainy day that ruined everything. Now the nervous flickers of warmth almost burn.

But Harry would let Niall burn him, thinks he already has if he’s being honest. All it took was that first moment at the pond, his eyes locking with Niall's, for every emotion he'd told himself was starting to fade out to come rushing back in, stronger than ever before. Niall's almost _more_ handsome now if that was even possible. His hair's longer, wild waves curling just a little at the nape of his neck and taunting Harry's fingers with the need to _touch_. The scrape of stubble on his strong chin, hinting at days without a razor. His _eyes,_ as gloriously blue as the forget-me-nots he'd been clutching in his hands, and without a hint of the anger or hurt they'd been filled with before. His voice, rushed but still musical, the same accent that's been haunting Harry's dreams for months on end _. Niall_. 

Harry _loves_ him. God help him, he loves Niall more than he ever could've imagined. If they hadn’t been interrupted, he knows he would’ve risked everything to try and kiss Niall. His restraint was seconds away from snapping. Shaking out his arms, he checks his reflection in the floor length mirror one more time, brushing his hair back out of his face before leaving his bedroom. His butler had informed him that his mother and sister had returned from the market, their usual Thursday afternoon trip, and that Cook was already working on dinner.

Harry's so damn glad that he got Niall to stay because he feels like the other man is about to slip straight through his fingers again like sand being swept away by the wind. If this is fate giving him a second chance to fix his mistakes, he’s not about to turn it down no matter what he has to do. He would’ve gone out and broken the axle of the Miller’s carriage if that’s what it took to keep Niall _here._ He heads down to the second floor and then follows the faint sound of music, the soft strumming of a guitar accompanied by the sweet melody of a pianoforte.

The music room has always been one of Harry's favorite rooms at Capesthorne. He's lost track of the hours he's spent in here over his life, learning every instrument possible with his tutor and then practicing until his fingers bled and grew rough with callouses. He knows Niall has similar callouses, has felt Niall's touch before (though not nearly how he wants to), but he's not expecting to enter the room to find Niall with a guitar in his lap. Gemma's at her pianoforte, dress neatly tucked underneath her on the bench. She looks up first, "Ah, they'd told me that you'd come home."

Niall looks up as well, cheeks going pink as soon as his eyes meet Harry's. "Yes," Harry says, trying to remember how to talk at all. It's difficult with the way Niall's looking at him, "I decided I'd come home a little early as a surprise."

Gemma hums, changing the song into something a little faster, less of a dirge. Niall's guitar playing shifts automatically to match, his nimble fingers plucking the strings in time. Harry wants those fingers on _him._ "Seems like it's a surprising day for us then. Surprise brother, surprise visitors—perhaps we should check and make sure that Cook's not going to try and feed us some sort of surprise meat."

"She would never chance her reputation like that," Harry can't stop looking at Niall's hands. He knew that Niall played guitar, vaguely remembers Niall saying it ages ago at Gawsworth, but he didn't think he'd play it this _well._ And he _certainly_ hadn't expected the sight of it to be so entrancing. "I'm presuming that I don't need to make any introductions at this point, right?" Even with Gemma’s shyness, he knows that Niall would’ve introduced himself. He’s more concerned with the fact that he wasn’t here and has no clue what, if anything, Gemma’s said about him. With how often she’s called him a fool since learning about Niall, the fact that they’ve had unsupervised conversations is off-putting.

"No, your Mr. Horan and I introduced ourselves when I came in here to find him admiring the instruments," she drags her fingers down the keys, a soft crescendo, the last note held out like a grateful sigh, "His eyes are bluer than you said they were. He should almost be insulted by it, really." Harry splutters at the same time as Niall manages to coax some unholy noise out of the guitar. Gemma, as Harry should've expected, looks entirely unrepentant. The phantom lump on his head, combined with the memory of her berating him over his proposal, almost makes him see stars.

But _‘Your Mr. Horan’_ circles in his head like the best song he’s ever heard.

Harry would know his mother's footsteps anywhere, the brisk pace of her shoes clicking on the floor, and turns just in time to see Anne walk in, "Oh, perfect, you’re all in one place. Dinner is about to be served." If she has any thoughts about the current scene—Harry and Niall both red-faced while Gemma looks like the picture of serenity—she doesn't say it. She reaches up, pinching Harry's cheek and murmuring, "Always glad to have you home, bug," before turning to head for the dining room.

Gemma gets to her feet, fixing her skirt so the wrinkles in the pale linen disappear, "See you two downstairs then." She also pinches Harry's cheek on the way out, her wink far from subtle, and then Harry is alone with Niall again. He almost wants to shut and lock the door just to extend the moment.

"I, um, I didn't think you'd have told your family about me," Niall admits, gently putting the guitar back on its stand.

"Why wouldn't I have told them about you?"

Niall shrugs, getting to his feet and dusting off his pants, "I don’t know, perhaps I just didn't think that I was important enough to you for that."

He grabs Niall's wrist when he tries to move past him, holding him still just long enough to whisper, "You are." His thumb presses against the inside of Niall's wrist, feeling his pulse race. He almost pulls Niall in closer, wonders if Niall would push him away, but then he hears Gemma calling his name from the stairs. He’ll have to manufacture some other way to get Niall alone later so they can talk (not that Harry’s entirely certain what he’d say). He steps back, reluctantly letting Niall go, and heads for the dining room. His hands keep trembling, still sparking from brushing against Niall's skin, while he tries not to focus too hard on the fact that Niall’s walking behind him. If he were able to, he’d play the gentleman and try to strike up a casual conversation, but he can’t manage to find words.

Harry doesn't know the Millers as well as his mother does, so he feels no real need to interrupt the already flowing conversation between Anne and Mrs. Miller. He sits down at the head of the table as usual, Anne and Gemma on either side of him, and watches as Niall sinks slowly into the seat next to Gemma. Niall should be at the other end of the table, _could_ be if Harry can possibly undo the damage he'd done months ago, but he'd rather not let himself get too far into that fantasy yet.

It takes about halfway through dinner for the conversation to turn away from the Millers and towards Niall. Harry's far too used to his mother's kindly interrogations and almost pities Niall, thoroughly unprepared for it. "I must say, Mr. Horan," Anne says as she delicately spears a spring of roasted asparagus with her fork, "I cannot believe that this is only the first time we're meeting you. Your family is from Ireland, yes?"

Niall nods. His plate is almost clear already; Harry had forgotten the power of Niall's appetite. "We're from Mullingar originally. About a day or two's trip from Dublin, depending on your pace. We moved to Congleton when I was about 6 or so, I think, when my father learned he'd inherited property. My youngest sister was still a baby. And please, call me Niall."

"How many sisters do you have?"

"Four," Harry's jealous of the warmth in Niall's voice, the way his lips seem to tilt up automatically. He wants Niall to look like that when he's thinking of _him,_ "Sophia is my twin sister, and then there's Ashlyn, Julia, and Perrie." He counts them off on his fingers, sky blue eyes brimming with pride. Harry’s missed the way that Niall's eyes show _everything,_ especially after spending so much time in London again where everyone—Harry included—hides behind a mask. Niall feels so _real_ in comparison. 

"I feel sorry for your parents, having to manage 5 unmarried children. Two is enough of a handful for me," Anne muses. Gemma rolls her eyes, holding out her wine glass for a servant to refill it.

But Niall just chuckles, the sound making Harry's stomach turn to warm, butterfly-laden fluttering clouds, "My mother bemoans all of us, I think." He stuffs the last bite of lamb into his mouth, wiping the corners of his lips with his napkin afterwards. Harry takes another bite of his own food only so the rest of the table will be less likely to notice that he's spent more time tonight staring at Niall than eating. Cook would kill him if she were here, box his ears and say that no face is better than her food. Harry used to agree with her.

"But how have _you_ managed to remain unmarried then? Only son with some level of fortune and a house to his name seems like prime material, especially in a small town. I would've figured that _someone_ would've snatched you up by now," thankfully, nobody seems to see the pointed look Gemma sends in Harry's direction or the scowl he replies with.

Niall shrugs, setting his fork back down, "You'll probably tease me for being a romantic, but I decided a long time ago that I would only marry someone that I genuinely loved. It's not like I haven't had offers, but I've, um, turned them down. For multiple reasons." Niall's eyes flash to Harry for the briefest moment before they're gone and he's looking down at his empty plate.

"I admire that outlook actually. You don’t meet many _men_ that are such romantics. It’s a little refreshing to know that such a thing even exists," Gemma says, dragging her finger around the rim of her wine glass, "But what happens if you don't find someone?" Harry doesn’t miss the way Gemma glances back at him again.

"When I made that promise to myself, I came to terms with the thought that I could just end up alone. I don't think I'd mind too much, really. I promised my twin that I would be the best uncle any of my sisters' children could ever ask for. All the sweets and pony rides their hearts desire. Sophia's not quite as enthused by the idea."

"Sophia's quite the little worry wort, isn't she?" Mrs. Miller says with an affectionate laugh, "Such a sweet girl but she always wants to solve the world's problems, not that you’re much better at times." Niall nods, eyes a little distant again, a flicker of homesickness maybe. Repairing things with Liam and Sophia is one of the things Harry knows he'll need to do to win Niall over for good this time; he's just not entirely sure how to do it without it being too obvious. But maybe he _should_ just be obvious about it. Louis would probably roll his eyes, but Harry's sure that telling Liam that Sophia Horan did (or does, hopefully) in fact love him would have Liam running barefoot all the way back to Congleton.

"Why would she be so opposed to it? Are your sisters all waiting on you to be the first to marry?" Harry watches his mother nudge her plate a little further away, leaning in on her elbow as though being an extra inch closer to Niall will help her see him better. To be fair, of course, every time Harry and Niall are close, Harry thinks he notices some extra detail he'd previously missed.

"No, no, at this point, I don’t think anyone in my family is too fussed about following any sort of proper order for us to be married. And I've always given up everything I could to help my sisters have a better shot at the altar than me, since I know it matters far more for girls," Niall pauses, rolling his head on his neck, and his cheeks turn the slightest shade of pink, "It’s more that Sophia—my sister insists that I'm the kind of person that _must_ be loved. ' _Deserves to be loved'_ is the phrase she throws around the most. So she views that life as the unmarried uncle to be something of a grave injustice."

Under the table, Harry clenches his hand on the sculpted edge of his chair. It's the only thing preventing him from getting to his knees, promising, insisting, _demanding_ that _he_ be the one to love Niall, to _be_ loved by Niall in return. Him _and only_ him. Harry _hates_ that image of Niall living alone in his family's house, nobody there to appreciate his smile or his laugh, to take care of him and make sure that he’s _happy_. It _is_ a grave injustice, the kind that the world should not allow to exist. And Harry won't, he _won't_ just stand by and watch it happen without trying to be the solution. Gemma looks back at him again, almost like she's _expecting_ him to make that outburst that's only existing in his mind right now.

" _Everyone_ should find love," Mrs. Miller says, hand pressed over her heart, "I've always believed that."

Knowing that he's been silent for too long, Harry manages to add in the firmest "Agreed." he can manage. Niall blinks back at him, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. Harry doesn’t let himself look away, wondering if maybe holding that sapphire gaze will be proof enough of his intentions. Wondering if Niall can somehow hear his thoughts, the ranting and desperate voice in his head repeating _'It's me! Love me!'_ in a screaming chorus. The blush on Niall's cheeks darkens just a little as he looks away.

///

The implications of agreeing to stay the night at Capesthorne rather than going back with Laura and Willie really hadn't set in until they'd gone home and Niall found himself at a card table with the Styles, watching as Anne dealt out cards for Whist. Niall's far from a good card player even in more comfortable situations, which this decidedly is not. He'd spent the entirety of dinner trying to ignore the fact that Harry was always staring at him, lips tight like he was holding back words that Niall's not even sure he would've wanted to hear. He doesn't think he's fully processed Harry's soft " _You are_." from the music room. How could _he_ be important to Harry? The man who turned down his proposal half-based on a lie? He's still a little shocked that he was even invited to dinner, let alone to stay the night.

He's starting to sweat but if he takes off his jacket, someone is bound to notice the fact that he's got a slightly crushed forget-me-not woven into the buttonhole of his shirt. He couldn't exactly continue walking around with it behind his ear, but he hadn't been able to just get rid of it either, so it's been sitting under his lapel all night, right next to his heart. Niall's normally not so sentimental but it just… _feels right_ to have it there. He supposes that it's probably a sign of all the things he's been trying to ignore over the past few months.

Niall's got a hard head and a strong will, to the amusement of his father and the detriment of his mother, but he worries that his walls are starting to crumble around him. When Anne had suggested that he spend the night, insisting on wanting to know more about him—the implications of that alone are enough to make his heart race—he'd wavered until he'd caught Harry's eye, seen the discreetly hopeful expression on Harry's face, and he'd agreed before even thinking it through.

"Do you go to London often, Niall?" Anne asks as she sets the first card down.

"Ah, no, can't say that I do. My father hates London, always has, and we've never had enough money to stay there for any length of time. The last time we went as a family was for Sophia's debut, I think, which was almost 4 years ago at this point," he inspects his hand, lays down the best card he can and hopes that Harry can make something of it, "Sophia went earlier this year with the Millers, though." Niall tries to seize on that memory, focus on getting that letter from Sophia admitting that she thought Liam was out of her reach now and how that's all _Harry's_ fault. But then he glances up and Harry's frowning at his cards, tugging at his lower lip with his fingers, and it becomes pointless. Nothing can stop the heat in his stomach, the way his lips twitch with the urge to smile on their own.

"I'm not surprised by that," Niall likes Gemma, the innate kindness in her eyes that somehow doesn't clash with the teasing words frequently spilling from her lips, "Not to sound like a total snob, but you don't dress like someone who's frequenting London."

"Gemma!" Anne snaps in that signature motherly voice that reminds him of Maura (only mildly less hysterical).

"No, no, it’s alright. I've always let my sisters have priority when it comes to money for their wardrobes, so most of my clothes are hideously out of date by London's standards. Luckily, our housekeeper is a magician with a sewing kit so she's able to keep me looking somewhat presentable," begrudgingly, of course. Mary keeps telling him that soon, she won't be able to let out his jackets any more than she already has.

"You care about your sisters very much, don’t you?"

Niall hums, playing his next card amidst another wave of homesickness, "More than anything, really. My parents are—well, I'd say that Sophia and I basically raised the other three. I'd do anything for them, even when they're driving me mad for some reason or another."

"You must have a favorite though, right?" Gemma asks with a grin, "I'm Harry's favorite sister, obviously."

Harry rolls his eyes, "You're my _only_ sister, Gemma."

"Amy is our step-sister!"

"And she's my favorite step-sister," Harry's retort comes easily and Niall can _hear_ his smile even without looking up at him. It warms his low voice like firewood crackling in a hearth.

"Well, Sophia is my twin, so it's probably her. But our next sister down, Ashlyn—think she'd be a close second. If I end up unmarried, I told her that she's welcome to stay with me for as long as she wants. She's not a fan of all the society things, _"_ he's not sure he's ever seen _more_ relief on someone's face as he did when their father told Ashlyn that they didn't have the money to go to London for her debut.

"Is she the one you danced with at that gathering in Congleton?" Harry asks, "The night we met?"

Niall blinks back at him, surprised that Harry remembers that at all, "I—yes, that's her. She hates dancing, refuses to do it with anyone other than me. Finds it tolerable if I’m the one she’s dancing with, I suppose."

Harry blushes, pinching his lip again before saying, "From my experience, I’d say it’s more than tolerable." Niall hums, choosing to revel in the heat in his chest rather than respond.

By the time they decide to retire for the night, there's only the merest trace of lingering unease at the back of Niall's mind. It's hard to feel uncomfortable for long amidst the Styles, their constant jokes and laughing, and it only leaves Niall wondering why Harry is so restrained and aloof with strangers. If _this_ was the Harry he had met back then, Niall thinks he never would've stood a chance. A servant shows him to one of the guest quarters, offers him a change of clothes and takes his clothes to be washed. Niall makes sure to remove the flower before he hands his shirt over and waits until the servant's left to carefully weave the stem through the buttonhole of the clean shirt. He's just not ready to put the little flower down, not when it’s still the one small thing reminding him that this isn’t all just some wild dream.

As promising as the bed looks—at least twice the size of Niall's at home and so tall that it comes up to his waist—he's not tired quite yet. He slips out of the guest room, making sure that he doesn't lock the door behind him and that he remembers which door is his in the first place, and pads down the hallway in bare feet. He would go back to the music room, but even his quietest playing would probably attract some level of notice. Instead, he makes his way out the back door, shivering through the initial chill of the night air.

The sky is cloudless, an uninterrupted expanse of inky black speckled with stars and a brilliant moon casting a glow on everything below. He doesn't want to go too far and risk getting lost, so he steps off the patio and sits down in the grass. It's like a blanket below him, thick as he runs his fingers through it and welcoming when he lays down on his back, using his other arm as a pillow. He tries to find constellations, using fuzzy memories of his father pointing out the big dipper or Andromeda when he was a child as a reference point. He remembers curling up outside their house in Mullingar, a blanket wrapped tight around his and Sophia's shoulders as their father had shown them shapes in the sky they never would've seen otherwise.

"Near impossible to see this much of the sky in London," Harry's voice feels like it's everywhere all at once. Niall feels the vibrations of his footsteps coming near and wonders if Harry notices the way his breath catches. "Every time I come back home, I'm caught off guard all over again," Harry sits down beside him, not _touching_ but also close enough that Niall wouldn't have to reach out far to touch him. He keeps his free hand tangled in the grass just to stop himself. He's not entirely sure what would happen if he touched Harry at this point. Alone in the dark, nothing but the stars watching them. It feels dangerous, the kind of thrill that leaves his heart racing. A precipice he's teetering on without the reassurance of something to break his fall if he jumped.

"Another reason for me to stay out of Town then," Niall replies. Harry's curls are free around his shoulders, a little longer than Niall remembers. His white shirt is loose, the same color as the glowing moonlight, and Niall doesn't even have to touch it to know that it's soft _. Harry_ looks soft, none of his usual edges and shields up. Niall wants to cradle him close in his arms and hold him there for the rest of time. Protect this softness from the rest of the world until Harry never has a reason to be so cold ever again.

"It has its charms."

"The country has more."

"You might be right," he isn't expecting Harry to agree like that, voice dropping to a thoughtful murmur. Niall isn't expecting the silence that settles over them to be so comfortable, so _easy._ He doesn't feel the need to fill it, to say something inane just to make noise. Niall's eyes are getting heavy when Harry finally speaks again, "You kept it."

Niall frowns, squinting through the darkness, "Kept what?" Harry reaches over, running his finger over the open collar of Niall's shirt down to the little flower nestled in the fabric. "Oh. I didn't want to throw it out or anything, but I couldn't exactly keep it behind my ear all night," the words stumble their way out of his lips, tripping over themselves like a drunkard at a tavern.

"You had it like this all night then? Under your jacket?" there's that cautious hope, thick in Harry's voice. Niall nods, keeping his eyes on Harry's face and trying to figure out his expression. It's better than looking at Harry's hand, the fingers softly tracing the edge of the flower petals, skimming dangerously close to Niall's skin. "Your sister's right, you know," Harry always speaks slowly, _frustratingly_ so at times, but this is different. This feels like he's trying to approve each word as it comes out of his mouth.

"Soph's right about a lot of things. You're going to have to be more specific," he doesn't, actually, because Niall knows _exactly_ what Harry's referring to and his heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest like it's armed with a pickaxe and is unbearably eager to leap straight into Harry's hands.

"You deserve to be loved. A man like you—I don't know that I could think of any man _more_ deserving of love than you, Niall," even though it's close to what he was expecting, it's not any easier to hear coming from Harry's lips. Niall goes still, his heart racing as Harry's warm fingers trail up his throat and over his stubbled jaw. "Let me be that person," Harry whispers, eyes so wide and so green even in the dark, "I _want_ to be that person, Niall, the one who loves you. The one you love."

Niall swallows, his tongue suddenly feeling too big for his mouth. He struggles to sit up, his elbow still in the grass and his face now mere inches away from Harry's, "H-Harry—"

Harry drags his lower lip between his teeth, looking down like he doesn’t want to meet Niall’s eyes, "If your feelings are the same as they were months ago, just tell me now and that will be the end of it. I won't bother you again. But—but if there's _any_ chance that they _have_ changed, that _you’ve_ changed, then—"

Saying it just seems like a waste of time. It’s not that he feels any need to rush to get it out there immediately. There's just something solid, something _sure_ in his heart that believes he's already wasted too much time spent _not_ kissing Harry, and losing any more time trying to find the right words isn’t going to remedy that. Maybe he doesn’t even _need_ to say it anyway. He pushes back his nerves, leans in, and kisses Harry.

Harry freezes for just long enough that Niall starts to pull back, doubt building at the base of his spine that maybe he’s gone too far too soon. But then Harry’s mouth opens with a soft gasp, and it’s so much better than any of his blurry fantasies. It feels so _natural,_ like second nature already in the way their lips meet. Harry pushes him onto the ground, curving his hand over Niall's cheek.

Harry tastes like summer, like red wine at sunset. Niall's never craved anything quite so much, wants to drown in the taste and the scent and the feel of Harry on top of him, settling between his legs, solid and warm. "Let me love you, Niall," he breathes out. Niall swallows the words like they're something physical, wanting to save them for the rest of his life. "I swear, nobody on this earth could ever love you more than I do. I've missed you so much, thought about you every moment and I just— _I love you_ , Niall. And I know I don't deserve it, not after everything, but I _want_ to be worthy of you, and—" it’s gratifying, the way Harry squeaks when Niall kisses him again, slow and gentle, cutting his words off.

"Think you already are, Harry," he's sure that there are better ways to say it, with more eloquence or dignity, but that's not the way _Niall_ wants to say it. He just wants Harry to hear him, to _understand_ that everything's changed since that argument. "I'm sorry, you know. For believing Zayn so blindly, for thinking the worst of you," Harry's curls are so silky, just like Niall always imagined but somehow even _better_ as he tangles his fingers in them.

"His charm was always his skill, his weapon. And it's not like I'd given you any reasons to like or trust me, let alone believe that I love you. There's no need to apologize," Niall hums, tilting his head up, aiming for another kiss. But Harry doesn't oblige him, instead whispering, "I'm sorry for meddling with Liam and your sister. I promise that I'll set it right if she'd still have him because I know he'll still have her. And I'm sorry for being so _abominably_ rude about your family."

"Sophia would still have Liam in a heartbeat, believe me. She’s still quite in love with him. And it's alright. You were never really _wrong_ about my family; I just love them all anyway." Harry hums, scattering featherlight kisses over Niall's cheek and jaw that leave him melting into the soft grass.

“And I love you,” Harry repeats, lips pressed against the corner of his mouth and Niall's never felt so _wanted_ as he does right now, with Harry kissing him like he's something to be treasured.

This is what he's been waiting for his whole life. It hits him all at once, barreling into his chest and taking root in his heart. This, _this_ is what he’s always wanted. He wishes he could say that he got his desire to fall in love with someone in an instant, but he knows that's not what happened. He was in the middle of loving Harry before he'd even figured out the start. But all that matters now is that he’s finally _in love_ with someone and that same person loves him _back._ To give himself a distraction as his brain tries to comprehend that, he teases, "You _did_ say that someone would have to be desperate to marry into my family, though."

He can _feel_ Harry's smile, how his mouth curves and stretches against Niall's cheek, "Perhaps you're currently looking at a desperate man."

"Desperate for what, I wonder?"

"Desperate for _you,"_ Harry's reply is whispered straight into Niall's ear, almost more air than noise, and Niall sighs beneath him, giving in willingly as Harry kisses his throat, the place where his pulse is pounding in his neck. Harry shifts on top of him just enough for Niall to feel his arousal, grinding down against Niall’s hip, "Would you like to see my bedroom?"

"Reckon I would," very much so. Niall's never wanted to see anything more. Harry clambers to his feet, wobbling slightly on unsteady legs, and then reaches down to help Niall up as well. Niall watches as Harry checks, making sure that the flower is still in place before taking Niall's hand. Their hands just _fit_ together so well that Niall almost wants to stop and admire it. They head for the third floor; Niall's grateful that there are no servants patrolling the halls to see them as they stumble forward on eager feet, hand in hand and breathing in time.

The largest room at Little Moreton is the parlor and Niall’s positive that Harry's bedroom is bigger than that. It's decadent, the space dominated by a massive bed heaped in pillows and blankets. There's a fireplace, currently unused, with two lounge chairs in front of it. Every shelf is stuffed with books, lines and lines of multi-colored spines of all sizes, and Niall wonders how many Harry's read. He can picture spending winters here with Harry, warming their feet by the fire as snow rains down outside, not needing or wanting for anything more than each other's company. He hears the click of the door locking and turns back to see Harry, now illuminated gloriously by the candles around the room. The sight of him pulls Niall’s world to a standstill, a puzzle with every piece finally in place and Harry at the center of it all. This is where Niall is _supposed_ to be. "What are you thinking about?" Harry asks as he crosses the distance between them, footsteps muffled by the ornate rug covering the wood floor.

"You," Niall replies easily, "And how right this feels."

Harry _grins_ at him, wider and brighter than Niall's ever seen before and his knees threaten outright revolt, "I'm glad I'm not the only one feeling that." Harry pulls him in, one arm looping around Niall’s waist as the other tilts his face up. Every kiss is getting less tentative as they learn each other: Harry makes the most amazing sound when Niall gently tugs on his hair and Harry's already found that spot just under Niall's jaw that makes him groan. And it's all so _simple,_ as though all they're doing is rediscovering what they instinctively knew. "Off," Harry purrs as he tugs on Niall's shirt, freeing it from his trousers, his hands sliding underneath the fabric.

"Wait, wait," Niall pulls back just long enough to carefully remove the forget-me-not before stripping his shirt off and tossing it to the floor. He puts the flower down on the bedside table—not entirely sure of just how they made it so close to the bed but entirely not interested in thinking it through—and then turns back to Harry.

Niall knows he's fit, has done more than enough helping neighbors with random manual labor and working around the house to no longer be the stick of a boy he had been when he was younger, but he also knows that he's still softer than he'd like to admit. Harry, on the other hand, is a landscape of lean muscles and tanned skin that makes Niall's mouth water. Finally, he _lets_ himself give into the urge (now an outright _need)_ to touch Harry, running hands he hopes Harry doesn't notice are shaking over his chest. "Have you ever done anything with another man?" Harry asks. His eyes are dark now, heavy-lidded and lusty, and it takes Niall a concerted effort to do more than just blink.

"I have, yes. A few from the village back when I was younger," he already knows that this experience is about to top those. He feels like he might explode with how much he wants Harry right now.

Harry hums, leaning in and dragging his lips along Niall's jaw and up to his ear, "Never tell me their names. I don't want to know who they are other than the lucky bastards who got to touch you before I did." His hands are everywhere, trailing fire down Niall's back and hips in their wake. He leans in closer, searching for more of that warmth.

"Jealous, are we?"

"Impossibly so," thankfully, Harry's hands seem to have a bit more composure than Niall's as he manages to undo Niall's falls without a single hitch. And then he's sliding to his knees, kissing a wet trail down Niall's stomach as he moves, and all Niall can manage to do is lean back against the mattress and _watch._ Harry gets his hand around Niall's cock, stroking just loosely enough that it teases rather than relieves.

“If you’re good enough, you might make me forget them entirely,” it’s only half a joke but it’s enough to keep Niall from thinking too hard about what comes next.

“Challenge accepted,” Harry purrs, squeezing Niall’s thigh as he strokes his cock a little faster.

Niall's never really considered himself particularly jealous, but when Harry's pink, wet lips mouth at the tip of his cock, Niall realizes that Harry's done this before to someone else and he'd rather like to throttle whoever it was, "Never tell me about yours either."

"An excellent gentleman's agreement, I think," he muses, looking up at Niall through his lashes as he tongues the leaking head of Niall's prick, “And maybe you’ll make me forget too.” Niall swears, doing his best to muffle the sound in the back of his hand. Harry's mouth is sinful in how it stretches as he sucks Niall in, one hand wrapped around the base of his shaft.

"Christ alive, Harry," he grits out, unable to stop from watching even as his self-control is wavering. Harry keeps going, inch by inch, until Niall bumps against the back of his throat. Niall nearly bites clear through his tongue trying to stay quiet. Harry pulls back, catches his breath and then does it _again,_ going further this time _._ He moans around Niall’s cock, a sound Niall _feels_ as much as he hears. Niall dares to fist his hand in Harry's curls and tug again, wanting to see if the older man still enjoys it during this too.

The whine Harry lets out travels straight through Niall to the tips of his fingers and toes, so he tugs harder, working with the rhythm Harry's set for himself. He watches as Harry's other hand slips down, freeing his own cock from his trousers. It’s a stunning sight, especially when Harry lets Niall set the pace. Niall is so fucking _conflicted._ He wants to get on his knees for Harry just as much as he wants to be inside Harry just as much as he wants Harry to be inside _him._ He wants it _all,_ more than anything else in his life.

He just wants _Harry._

There's spit trailing from the head of his prick to Harry's now swollen lips when he pulls back, panting more heavily now, "I want you to fuck me, Niall." Well, that solves Niall's indecision and also makes him even harder. He nods, unable to say much more, and helps Harry back to his feet. It's hard, trying to get their pants off while kissing, but they eventually manage it and then Harry's climbing onto his bed, pulling Niall along with him like a siren Niall can’t resist. He shifts until his head is on the pillows, dark curls fanning out around his head like a halo, and Niall settles between his legs to just admire him.

"God help me," he murmurs, running his hand over Harry's firm thigh, feeling the muscles jump under his palm as he pushes up, "I think you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." It's not just that Harry's a vision naked and stretched out like this. It's that he seems _bare,_ like he's taken down all those walls he always had up all at once and Niall's breathless at the privilege of it all. _This,_ he thinks, is truly Harry.

"It was the lighting, you know," Harry whispers, almost urgently, reaching out with one hand to cup Niall's cheek and tilt his head up, "The night we met. It was so dim in that room and—it didn't do you justice. It made you look so plain, so dull, so—"

"Tolerable?" Niall supplies with a wink as he strokes Harry's cock. It's a little bigger than his own, maybe not quite as thick, but still _perfect._ He swipes his thumb through the bead of pearly liquid at the tip, using it to slick the next stroke. His own cock’s throbbing between his legs, desperate for the same kind of attention, but Niall doesn’t want to stop touching Harry quite yet.

Harry nods, lip between his teeth, "And then you walked into Liam's dining room and I thought there was no way that you were the same person I'd seen the night before, that there was no way anyone could go from being so plain to so _perfect,_ but you did and—and that was it. That was the start."

"The start of what?"

"Loving you, though I didn’t know it then," Harry's eyes are far too honest, too _bare_ for the situation they're currently in but Niall can't stop himself from beaming. Harry loves him, _him!_

"And it was all downhill after that, hmm?"

Harry shakes his head, hips barely thrusting up into the circle of Niall’s fingers on his prick. "My life's only gotten _brighter_ since I met you, Niall. Even after we fought, it's—I think I only loved you _more_ after that. I made myself absolutely miserable by trying and failing to forget about you. My sister's called me an idiot at least once a day since I told her what happened."

"Another gentleman's agreement: no discussion of sisters in bed," Harry might only have the one, but Niall's got _four_ and he really has no interest in thinking about them when he's like this with Harry. "You have oil or something?" Harry motions to the bedside table. The bed's big enough that Niall has to crawl over to reach it, tugging the drawer open by the sturdy iron handle. Harry slips behind him, lips warm on the back of his neck as Niall digs through a random assortment of things—spare candles, old letters, a pair of reading glasses—to find a small bottle of oil near the back of the drawer.

Niall's only ever been on the receiving end of this, not that he's about to admit it to Harry, but he knows the general method. And Harry's so eager, flushed rosy pink all the way down to his chest, that Niall doubts he's going to get judged if he fumbles a bit. He leans in to kiss Harry after slicking two of his fingers with oil, wanting to use it as a slight distraction as he reaches between Harry's legs. He traces his rim first, wanting to get it as slick as possible before he presses just the tip of his finger in. Harry whimpers, squirms underneath him, and spreads his legs even wider, which Niall takes as a sign that he can keep going.

Harry's so damn tight around his finger alone that Niall doubts he's going to last long when it comes to the actual act. "Another," Harry breathes out, tugging Niall's lip between his teeth. It takes a little longer to get a second finger in, but the reward is worth it. Harry sinks down into the bed, keening when Niall crooks his fingers, searching until he finds that bundle of nerves.

There's art in the way Harry arches up off the bed, music in the way he gasps out Niall's name, ecstasy in the feeling of his nails digging into the sweaty skin of Niall’s back. "That's it, pet," Niall presses his face into the curve of Harry's neck, biting and sucking his tanned skin until he knows that he's left a mark. That he's _claimed_ Harry, left something of himself behind after all this, a bruise that will linger for days even after Niall's returned home. "Want to make this good for you. Want you to still feel it tomorrow, feel _me,"_ he curves his fingers again, stroking more intently over that spot until Harry groans out a request for another finger. Niall only pulls back to add more oil, wanting his fingers slick as possible, before leaning in again.

Their kiss is messy, frantic, more tongues and teeth than anything else. It feels almost too sudden when Harry hisses out, "I'm good, I'm good, need you inside me," but Niall doesn't hesitate. He scoots back, planting one more kiss onto Harry's chin, a faint scar there just begging to be acknowledged. Harry rolls over, pulling himself onto shaky hands and knees, and it all becomes _real_ in that moment.

"You don't mind, do you?" Niall murmurs, "Getting a bit ahead of a wedding night?" He coats his prick with more oil, stroking himself a few times to take the edge off and then dripping a little more on Harry's hole, stretched and ready, for good measure.

"Doesn't matter," Harry's voice is muffled, his face pressed into the pillow, "I just want you and I can't want to wait any longer for this."

"Good," Niall leans in, pressing a kiss to the base of Harry's spine, palming the pale round of his arse before getting up on his knees, "Tell me if I need to stop, alright?"

"Not fragile, Niall. I can handle a little—oh _fuck,"_ Harry moans into the pillow when Niall pushes in, the head of his cock working past the resistance, nudging in as slowly as Niall can bear. The only soft part of Harry is the slight pudge at his sides, perfect for Niall's hands to grip as he sinks in. Harry's so _tight,_ body warm as it gives in. Niall could do this all night—hopefully, he'll _get_ to do this for the rest of his life. The thought has him leaning forward, dotting kisses across Harry's broad back, the angles of his shoulder blades, tasting the sweat on his skin. Niall bottoms out, swearing low into Harry's neck and waiting to be told he can move. In the end, it doesn't come as words at all. Harry just rocks backwards, subtle but still a hint, and Niall works up all the restraint he can manage just to make this last a _little_ longer.

He supposes that it would be more romantic to go slow, to savor every second of this first time, but he _can't._ Not when Harry's making these little noises, alternating between low, raspy grunts and mewling whimpers, hips meeting Niall's every thrust. So he fucks into him hard, spreading Harry apart just to watch his cock sink into him, trace the stretched rim with his thumb and marvel at the way Harry's taking him so well. He wonders—there's that jealousy again—who else has gotten to see Harry like this, a needy mess without a hint of his usual composure. But it doesn't really matter who _else_ has seen it because Niall's the _only_ one who wants to see it from here on out.

"Feels so good, pet," he growls, listening to the slap of his skin against Harry's, "Waited so long for this."

"Yes, Niall, _yes!"_ Harry whines when Niall changes the angle just a little, "Right there!"

"Hush, love, don't want to wake everyone else up, do we?" as if the sound of the bed creaking and the headboard bumping against the wall isn't making enough of a racket.

"Don't care, just fuck me," Niall muffles his laugh in Harry's shoulder, using the proximity to grind his cock in Harry's arse, trying to keep the angle steady. He slides one hand down, wrapping his fingers around the thick shaft of Harry's prick and stroking. "Niall, Ni, I—fuck, I'm close," Harry hisses, fucking down into Niall's hand and then back onto his cock.

"Want you to come first then. I want to feel it," Harry nods, turning his head. Their eyes meet over Harry's shoulder and Niall tries to commit the image to memory. Harry's green eyes dark and blown out, his lips reddened and swollen, curls sticking to his sweaty forehead. It's beautiful, it's _everything._ "I love you," he whispers, realizing that it's the first time that _he's_ said it. Probably not the most romantic moment compared to Harry saying it outside, but better late than never.

Harry shudders all over, squeezing his eyes shut, but he's _smiling_ , "Love you too." Bolstered by the heat in his chest at those words, Niall starts thrusting again, doing his best to keep stroking Harry in time with each push. Harry's cock is leaking everywhere, making Niall's hand slick and messy. His low chant, a mumbled string of _yes_ and _more_ and _right there_ turns into one long, broken moan when he comes all over Niall's fingers and the bed. His body clamps down on Niall's cock, almost too tight to bear. Next time, he wants to have Harry on his back so he can _watch_ him come. "God, Niall, come for me. I need it," Harry gasps, hands fisting in the sheets.

"Fuck, fuck _, fuck_ , Harry!" Niall loses his rhythm but doesn't care, just fucks Harry down into the thick mattress. He knows Harry must be oversensitive after coming but he can't help it, can't go back to being gentle. He grips Harry's side harder with his clean hand, knowing that there will be bruises left behind by his fingertips. Harry moans, clenching down again like he’s trying to help push Niall over the edge. The pleasure swells in his stomach, a fire turning white hot, and every muscle seems to tighten almost painfully before it snaps. Before he's spilling inside Harry, choking down his own moan, cock twitching as he empties himself in Harry's arse in thick pulses. Harry whimpers, grinding his hips back against Niall as he rides out his orgasm.

Harry’s the first to give out, slumping face down onto the bed. Niall wants to do the same, just collapse on top of Harry and try to catch his breath, but he knows that it would be uncomfortable after too long. He pulls out slowly, entranced as he watches some of his seed leaking out of Harry's loose hole, now trying to close around nothing. He gently drags his thumb through the white smear, pushing it back in as if he could keep it there, just another way to mark Harry. The older man’s gone limp, face smushed against the downy pillow, so Niall's guesses he’s going to be responsible for cleaning them up. His legs are near useless and he's grateful that Harry's not watching as he stumbles and wobbles his way over to the wash basin on the other side of the room to get a flannel damp. He cleans himself off first and then brings it back to the bed. 

Harry whines, soft and a little pained as Niall gently cleans him up. "Think we've made a proper mess of the bed," Niall muses as he tosses the wet flannel to the floor.

"Don't care."

Just to tease him, Niall fakes a long yawn, "Well, perhaps I should be getting back to my room then."

Harry _growls,_ reaching out to snatch Niall by the arm and drag him down into the tangle of sweaty sheets, "Absolutely not. You're staying right here and sleeping with me." He rolls onto his back, pushing his tangled curls out of his face.

"What a scene we'll cause in the morning," Harry's scowl is so familiar that Niall can't help but chuckle.

"The servants can deal with it."

"Suppose they can," Niall presses a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of Harry's mouth before stretching out, digging his heels into the mattress, and feeling his muscles burn, "Come on then, love. We've ruined this top blanket, but the sheets are still fine." Harry goes willingly, letting Niall nudge the thickest blanket off the bed and drag the sheets over them both. He's not quite expecting the way Harry rolls over, scooting until his back is pressed to Niall's chest and he's curled up like he's trying to make himself smaller than Niall, but he's not going to argue it even if it means he’s likely to wake up with a mouth full of Harry’s hair. "I love you," he whispers instead, curving his arm around Harry's waist.

"I love you too," Harry's words are already slurring together with encroaching sleep. And that sounds good, falling asleep with Harry in his arms for the first time, so Niall lets his eyes close. It feels like coming home.

///

It's _nice._

No, not nice. Harry decides that that word is far too insignificant for the feeling of waking up with Niall's arm looped around his waist, Niall's lips on the back of his neck and shoulder. It's _perfect._ He hums, squirming backwards to get closer, and feels Niall's cock pressing against his lower back, already half-hard. "Morning, pet," Niall whispers against his skin, "Moving like that's going to get me riled up, you know."

"Seems like you're already riled up, so I fail to see the problem," Harry says through a yawn.

"A fair point," Niall's arm slides lower, hand finding Harry's cock and stroking, "Not too sore from last night?" Even if he _were,_ Harry wouldn't say so. Niall being here is something that has a time limit, both in terms of decency and however long he was supposed to be staying with the Millers. Harry wants to use every second he has. He knows that his mother, having waited (in her opinion) far too long for Harry to get married, won't allow him to get away with a special license. If he could, he'd be riding to London now, calling in favors to get one just so he could marry Niall tomorrow and be done with it. As it is, he supposes that he's going to have to settle for a timeframe of a few months at best and hope he can find some way to get Niall closer to Capesthorne in between.

As wonderful as it is, having Niall's hand on his prick, kissing Niall is just as pleasurable. Harry rolls over, sheets tangling more around his legs. "Something the matter?" Niall asks, eyes blue and bright and _happy._

"Just wanted to do this," Harry replies as he leans in, locking their lips together. He's addicted to kissing Niall already and it seems like such a _colossal_ waste of time now, how long it took for them to get to this point. Niall's hair is rumpled from sleep, sticking out in odd directions, but it's softer than Harry ever could've imagined when he runs his fingers through it. He lets Niall push him onto his back, willingly spreads his legs to let the younger man settle between then, cock dragging a wet smear across Harry's hip when Niall grinds down.

It's not that Harry is _opposed_ to the thought of being the one on top this time, spreading Niall out on these sheets and claiming him. It's just that last night was so bloody _good_ that he wants a repeat of that first. "Can we do it like this?" Niall murmurs as his lips drag across Harry's jaw, down his neck to bite down, "Want to see you this time."

" _Yes,"_ Harry gasps, arching up with _need,_ "Yes, God, Niall. Please." Niall's mouth slides lower, wet tongue circling Harry's nipple before his teeth nip, pulling the bud to a hardened point. Harry's always loved the way the sun fills his bedroom in the morning. It was one of the reasons he'd chosen to stay in his old bedroom even after his father had passed. And now, seeing Niall lit up by the morning sunlight, is holy. An angel at home in a church of sheets and beauty that he'd happily worship in morning, noon, and night. "I love you," he says, unable to say it enough now that he knows it's reciprocated.

Niall grins back at him, mouth inches away from Harry's prick, "You're just saying that because of where I am right now."

"N-not in the slight- _est!"_ Harry gasps, jerking as Niall's lips close around the red, leaking tip of his cock. Niall clearly knows what he's doing, tongue working wonders on the underside of Harry's cock, but that only does so much to combat the bitterness in Harry's chest at the knowledge that someone _else_ taught Niall how to do this. Harry didn't get there first, claim Niall for himself from the very start. Hypocritical, of course, as Harry wasn't a virgin either and he's sure Niall would say the same thing.

But he's _Harry's_ now, which is all that matters. Nobody else, man or woman, will ever get to see Niall like this again. Niall pulls back, lips shiny and wet, and muses, "If I make you finish like this, will you be able to go again?" Harry nods, only half-sure that it's the truth but _entirely_ sure he wants to try. It's new to him, giving up control like this, but it's so _freeing_ at the same time. He wants Niall to ruin him—more than he already has, at least. Harry thinks this is just the culmination of what Niall unknowingly started when he strutted into Liam's dining room last year. "Good," Niall purrs, taking Harry into his mouth again.

Harry wants to watch but it's too hard to hold himself up for long. He sinks back onto the bed, reaching down to tangle his hand in Niall's messy hair. Niall's one hand is on his cock, stroking what isn't in his mouth, while the other is on the inside of Harry's thigh to keep his legs spread (as if Harry really needed any help with that). "'m close, darling," he warns when the pleasure coiling in his core gets almost too tight to bear. He still remembers his first experience with Nick when he was younger, the way Nick had quite _firmly_ informed him that it was only appropriate to give a warning first. But Niall merely hums, cheeks hollowing around Harry's prick, and when Harry glances back down, Niall's looking up at him. His eyes, teasing and dark, goad Harry on and he comes with a strangled moan, spilling into Niall's mouth, hips rising off the bed in search of _more._ Harry's positive that Niall, devil that he is, swallows loudly on _purpose_ just to make Harry whimper.

"Lovely," Niall murmurs when he pulls back, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, "Now to see if you're a man of your word." He sits up, crawling over Harry and reaching for the bottle of oil that Harry can only assume fell off the bed at some point during the night.

"I'll try to be," Harry slurs, using the hand still in Niall's hair to tug him down for another kiss. He can taste himself on Niall's tongue, which is enough to make his cock twitch again. "Should've been doing this ages ago," he mumbles, talking to himself really, when he finally lets Niall hang off the edge of the bed.

"We were living in the same house for over a week at one point, weren't we? S'pose we missed our chance then."

"Would you have said yes?"

Niall smirks, the bottle of oil now clenched in his hand like a trophy, "Think it would've depended on how nicely you asked. Don't know how much Liam would've appreciated it though." Niall's so _damn beautiful_ , broad but soft, his chest hair trailing down his stomach to the base of his cock. Harry goes to touch, wanting to make sure that this isn't some very lovely dream, but then Niall's slicking his fingers with oil and Harry gets _distracted_.

He's going to _marry_ this man, a thought that has him grinning like a fool at the ceiling. He's going to marry Niall and wake up next to him _every morning._

It's been a while since Harry had been the one getting fucked, but he's still a little loose from last night and it's easier to let Niall's slick fingers open him up now. Harry sighs out Niall's name when the younger man crooks his fingers up, brushing slow and steady against that spot that makes Harry see stars. "You're so beautiful, pet," all the teasing vanishes from Niall's voice, leaving it soft and gentle and _loving._ Harry wants to bottle the sound and carry it with him always. "I don't—don't quite know what someone like you sees in a bloke like me but—"

" _You_ are the most beautiful man I've ever seen, Niall. And I will suffer through you making 'tolerable' jokes for the rest of our lives, but only if you _understand_ that you're—everything," Harry will blame the interruption of his impassioned speech on Niall's steady fingers rather than the way his tongue just gets tied when Niall looks back at him with those eyes. "C'mere," he mutters instead, dragging him down, "You don't know how much I love you."

Niall tugs at Harry's lower lip with his teeth at the same time he adds a third finger, "Guess you'll have to show me."

"I will," Harry says absently, more focused on grinding down onto Niall's fingers, "Every day of the rest of our lives." He gasps when Niall kisses him again, harder this time, pouring some unknown desperation into Harry’s mouth. Harry wants _all_ of it, no longer terrified of the way Niall renders his defenses useless. Now he's almost hungry for it, eager for Niall to take him apart and put him back together again as something better, more whole, more complete. He barely has time to acknowledge the empty feeling of Niall's fingers slipping out of him before they're replaced by Niall's cock, thick and hot and hard. " _Fuck,"_ Harry hisses, arching his back up against Niall's chest.

It's so much _better_ like this, and far more overwhelming than last night. Niall is _everywhere._ He's got one hand on Harry's hip, the soft part that he's never been able to get rid of no matter how active he is, and the other is bracing himself on the pillow next to Harry's head. Harry drags his nails down Niall's back, feeling the muscles flex as Niall fucks him with slow, steady thrusts, hoping that he leaves red marks behind. He does his best to keep his legs wrapped around Niall's waist, ankles hooked to keep them in place, but every part of him just wants to melt into the sheets and enjoy this. He's barely aware of the things Niall's whispering into his cheek, his jaw, his ear. Open mouthed kisses accompanying a litany of love and affection and adoration, half of it in what Harry swears is Irish. He wants to drown in it all.

Niall's got the angle just right, hitting Harry's prostate on each deep thrust. Thankfully, one of the pillows has slid up, the only thing protecting Harry's head from slamming against the headboard (which is knocking loudly against the wall) as Niall picks up the pace. He presses his face into Niall's neck, biting and kissing every inch of sweaty skin he can get to. He doesn't care that people will see—on the contrary, it's what he _wants._ He wants Niall to strut back into Congleton with the evidence of Harry all over him, mottled purple bruises of ownership written across his pulse. Let everyone else see what Harry left behind on the love of his life. He doesn't even know he's chanting out _mineminemine_ under his breath until Niall whispers, "Yes, pet, 'm yours. Think I always have been," into his ear.

Harry's whimper is broken, far from dignified, but he doesn't care. "And I'm y-yours," he gasps out.

" _Yes,"_ Niall pushes Harry's legs up, hooking one over his shoulder, and Harry's almost bent in half, but everything feels too _good._ When Niall leans back, he's truly something ethereal, eyes like jewels and a mouth Harry would die to kiss right now if he were capable of moving. Harry can't take his eyes off him, fights the urge to close them even when Niall pushes in a little harder. He goes to reach for his cock, now fully hard and leaking against his stomach, but Niall bats his hand away. "Come like this, love, I know you can," his accent's even thicker now, words coming between soft grunts, "Want to watch it, pet. Want to see you let go for me."

"T-tell me again," Harry can feel it building in his core, isn't quite sure why he wants to hear those simple words from Niall right _now_ other than the desire to hear them _always._ He's almost expecting Niall to tease him for it, especially right now, but the smile that crosses Niall's face is soft and _sure._ Niall slides his hand up Harry's trembling thigh, over his side and chest, resting in a tender curve against his cheek.

"I love you, Harry," Niall murmurs and it is _impossibly_ romantic and everything Harry wants, and he comes with a strangled sob, muffling the noise with the back of his hand. "That's it, pet— _God,_ Harry, you're beautiful, so damn beautiful and— _fuck!"_ Niall's hips stutter and press in deep as he comes too, grinding against Harry's arse. The world stills, calms around them as they both try to catch their breath. Harry's increasingly aware of the sticky mess of his own release on his stomach, the way that Niall's cock is softening inside him, but he doesn't want to move just yet. He wants to savor this moment just as it is.

He turns his head, kissing the inside of Niall's wrist, "Love you too." Niall hums, slowly pulling out of him. The bed shifts and Harry doesn't protest when Niall gently rolls him onto his stomach. Not that he really could, considering that his limbs all feel disconnected from the rest of him. He's still in that hazy fog when he feels Niall's hands on his thighs again, spreading his legs open and then Niall's tongue is flicking across his hole and it's a _damn_ good thing that Harry's face is pressed into the pillows because the moan that tears its way out of his throat is _loud._

"Need to clean you up," Niall whispers and Harry _knows_ that he's smirking. But he pushes his hips up anyway, wanting to chase these aftershocks of pleasure before he gets too sensitive. Niall's tongue is hot and wet, dipping inside him and practically fucking him all over again while he's still loose and trembling. Harry clenches the sheets in his hands, biting his lip as Niall strokes soothing circles into his thighs. When it gets to be too much, tipping the scale away from pleasure, he whimpers, and Niall pulls away without question.

"You're going to be the death of me."

"You don't mean that," Niall tells him, kissing his way up Harry's spine.

"I mean it a little."

"No, you don't," they need to clean up, especially if they want a chance at having breakfast at a still decent hour, but Harry still cuddles back against Niall's sweaty chest. "You love me," Niall's voice is a whispered song in his ear, lips brushing against the curve of his neck.

"More than anything," falling asleep again is so _tempting._ When they're married, Harry thinks that they might not leave their bed for days on end. He'll increase the servants' pay to compensate them for the extra effort of bringing meals all the way up to his bedroom three times a day. With Niall's appetite, it might take an army of them. "I should've told you before," he adds drowsily.

"You did tell me," Niall says, "It's not your fault that I didn't believe you."

He should be looking at Niall for this. He wants his words to sink into that gorgeous head so Niall never has a reason to doubt him ever again. He nudges Niall onto his back and, when his original plan to sit up fails due to his body firmly rejecting the thought of being anything other than horizontal, turns to lay half on Niall's chest. "It is. I should've told you _why_ I love you. I was so nervous that I didn't think about it at all."

"Well then," Niall combs his fingers through Harry's hair, gently tugging through the knots and making Harry purr in the process, "Tell me now." The words come easier than Harry expected, pouring out of his mouth in a steady, only mildly jumbled stream, and he manages to hold Niall's gaze as he talks. He watches the way Niall's cheeks flush more and more as Harry talks, the way his eyes soften and turn up at the edges, and could add it all to his list. When he's finished, they lay there in silence for a long, perfect moment before Niall whispers, "You—I love you too, Harry. And at some point, when I've had time to figure it out, I'll tell you all the reasons why too. Just know that I've—" He stops, licking his lips, and the blush travels a little further down his neck. "'ve been waiting all my life to hear someone say that and mean it. So thank you," his voice wobbles and cracks, vulnerable in a way that makes Harry want to shield him from the rest of the world.

"You're welcome, darling. I'm sorry I didn't tell you before when I felt it then too. I've been regretting it ever since."

"Perhaps it's for the best that you didn't. I don't know that I would've listened then either. Maybe we needed to be apart to figure it all out," perhaps Niall's right. As much as he feels that this right now, curled up in their little slice of heaven together, was overdue, perhaps it only feels so right _because_ they had time to realize what they both really wanted. Harry just knows that he never wants to be apart for this long again. Which means he has something to ask for the second time. It feels a little pointless, like it’s something they both just _know_ now _,_ but he really wants to hear Niall say _yes._

He licks his lips, "Niall, I want—"

A knock to his door interrupts him. Someone clears their throat before saying, "Sir? Breakfast will be served shortly." As if on cue, Niall's stomach growls.

"Thank you," Harry calls back. He'll get his chance to ask again later. "Come on, we should probably get cleaned up a little before we go downstairs." Everything in him, both physically and mentally, complains when he sits up and scoots out of bed.

"Your family isn't going to think any less of me, right?" Harry gets distracted by the way Niall stretches his arms up over his head. His mouth waters, the temptation of dragging Niall back between the sheets briefly stronger than his desire to eat.

"No, they might tease us but—well, you wouldn't be the first man to join the family for breakfast," Niall raises his eyebrow, something dark flashing in his eyes that makes Harry's very core clench again. If _Niall_ wanted to drag him back between the sheets, he wouldn’t argue.

"That so?"

"Yes. But you're the _best_ man."

Niall smirks, "And the last, I hope."

"No need to hope for something that's a fact, love."

///

It's a good thing that Harry was correct and all Anne and Gemma do upon their entering the dining room is share knowing smiles because both he and Harry look _rumpled_ to say the least. Niall had dipped back into his room only to retrieve his cleaned clothes, folded neatly on the bed he never used, and change. But that does nothing to hide that fact that his hair is even more untamed than usual and if he tilts his head in the wrong direction, everyone's going to get quite the view of his neck that he knows Harry's marked up. He doesn’t regret a minute of it and if he wasn’t so hungry, he would’ve stayed right in bed with Harry until someone came and forced them out.

"I hope you're hungry," Gemma says, "I think the fact that we had a guest has inspired Cook to outdo herself with breakfast."

"I'm starving, actually," Niall's already filling his plate with fresh eggs and steaming sausages and perfectly golden-brown toast. He worked up an even bigger appetite after this morning (not that he's about to tell Harry's mother and sister that).

"Niall's appetite nearly emptied out Liam's kitchen at Gawsworth," Harry teases.

"I'm still a growing boy," Harry's smile is so _fond,_ like Niall's the best thing he's ever seen, and Niall wants to roll around in the feeling. He was caught off guard at Harry's list of things he loves this morning, especially when it went past the simple things that Niall thinks everyone can cross off hearing like laughs and smiles. Niall never knew that when Harry lurked at the edge of the room while he told Liam stories, it was because he _wanted_ to listen to the way Niall told them rather than him being annoyed. Or that Harry treasured every time Niall argued with him over something trivial.

The thing sticking in his head most though is how honest Harry's eyes had been when he told Niall that he was the first man that made Harry want to relax and be himself. That might have been a compliment that topped every other one—maybe topped anything that Niall's _ever_ heard. He's letting himself hope without restriction now, letting his heart swell up past the limits of his body with the thought of what comes next. If Harry proposes again, Niall won't even have to hesitate. He doesn't want anyone else, knows he never will. This is what he's been _waiting_ for.

He's listening to Gemma tell some story of Harry as a child that's making Harry turn red when their housekeeper slips into the room. "Excuse me, I don't mean to interrupt," she says with a neat curtsy. Niall almost wants to apologize in advance for the state of Harry's room because he knows they ruined the sheets at least. Not that he regrets it for a moment.

"No need to apologize, Lou," Anne says with a wave of her hand, "Did you need something?"

"Two letters arrived this morning for Mr. Horan. They were forwarded by the Millers," Louise hands them over. Both are from Sophia, her neat handwriting instantly recognizable. Two letters back-to-back is odd though, especially since they're both dated from the same day.

"Do you mind?" he asks, already pushing his chair back.

"Of course not," Anne gestures to the door and he leaves the dining room, pausing in the hallway to rip the first letter open. Most of it is normal for Sophia, giving him updates on their family and hoping that he's enjoying his trip. But at the bottom, there's a post-script added hastily below her name.

> _Niall, I was about to send this but there's quite a commotion downstairs. I think something's happened, but I'm not sure what. I'll write again when I know more._

Frowning, he opens the second letter.

> _Niall,_
> 
> _I confess that I don’t know what to write. The commotion downstairs came from a letter Papa received from Sgt. Nelson in Hull. Our worst fears have turned into reality. Perrie has run off with Mr. Malik. A letter she left for Miss Nelson implied that she and Mr. Malik are heading to Scotland to be wed, as they are—in Perrie's own words—"hopelessly in love". But from Sgt. Nelson's discussions with some of Mr. Malik's friends in the militia, he's unsure that marriage is truly the man’s goal. If Perrie isn't found, if she's not married—I can't bear to write it. You know it anyway. Mama has locked herself in her room due to nerves, Papa is already heading to meet Sgt. Nelson and try to find them, and I have the sinking suspicion that Julia knows more than she's letting on. Please come home as soon as you get this, Niall. I know that you're probably ready to go join Papa, but we need you here. I need you here. Please come home. _
> 
> _-Sophia_

Niall sinks against the wall, fist clenching around the first letter. He knew—he _knew_ that _something_ would happen with Perrie, but this feels even more catastrophic. He doubts that Zayn has any intention of marrying Perrie, not if he's truly hunting for a dowry. Perrie’s will be a pittance at best. It would take pressure to get him to marry her, possibly more than Niall's father and Sgt. Nelson have. The door to the dining room opens, making him jump. "Oh, Mr. Horan, I didn’t think you’d be right here,” Louise pauses, “Are you alright, sir? You look terribly unwell." He hears chairs scraping in the dining room and takes an instinctual step back to stay out of sight.

God, this is probably the _one thing_ that could get all of Harry's worst sentiments about Niall's family renewed. "Who brought this? Are they still here?" he asks.

"One of the Miller's servants dropped it off on the way into town," damn. If it were Laura or Willie, he'd have a ride back. Now he's going to have to ask Harry for a horse or _something_ to take him to the Millers so he can get his things and head home as fast as possible. He leans against the wall again, closing his eyes and trying to think. "Mr. Horan? Do you need to sit down?"

"I'll handle this, Lou. Thank you," Harry's voice sounds miles away, a murmur compared to the blood rushing in Niall's ears. Niall faintly hears the door clicking shut and then Harry's hands are on his cheeks, warm and already so familiar, tilting his head up until their eyes meet. "Niall, what's happened?" Unable to get any other words out, Niall shakily hands over the second letter. He closes his eyes, not wanting to see Harry's expression change as he reads it. "Christ," Harry's still got one hand on Niall's cheek and he wants to hold it there like it could somehow stop what feels like a gap widening between them.

"I need to go home," he manages to croak, "I need to fix this. 's my fault, I never told anyone other than Sophia about what he truly is and I couldn't stop Perrie from going but maybe if she'd known then she would've stayed away from him but she didn't know because I said nothing and—"

Harry's shirt smells like fresh, lightly floral linen as he pulls Niall into his arms. Niall swallows, pressing his nose against the sharp line of Harry's collarbone. "Breathe, Niall," Harry's lips are at Niall's ear, so gentle like the hand running over Niall's back, "This is _not_ your fault. You didn't say anything because I _asked_ you not to do so. If anything, _I'm_ the one that should've spoken up earlier. Zayn’s _my_ cross to bear, not yours. And I'm not sure that it would've done much either. He's charming and your sister is…headstrong."

"She's a damn fool."

"I’d have to agree, but what matters now is containing the situation. If someone doesn't find them, this could ruin your entire family," Niall hates the way Harry says it even though it's _true,_ damn it. Perrie could have ruined them all with this.

"I need to go home," he repeats without moving. He doesn't want this to be the last time that he ever sees Harry but right now, it feels like it could be. If his family is ruined, they'll be shunned by Society. There'd be no way to keep it quiet, not when Congleton is full of gossipers with ties to London.

He'd joked last night that they were getting ahead of a wedding night, now he thinks that there's never going to _be_ one. "Come on, you can use our carriage to get you to the Millers. I have no doubt that they'll want to help your family as well," Harry nudges Niall away just enough to take his hand and lead him down the hallway. Niall follows blindly, unsure how he's even managing to walk.

"Give my apologies to your family. I—I wanted to stay," he says after Harry's asked one of their servants to ready the carriage.

"I wanted you to stay too, darling," Niall looks back at Harry, trying to figure out the reason for Harry's reserved expression. He's not sure if he's just trying to stay calm for Niall's sake or if he's already pulling away. "But I know you need to be with your family right now and it would be cruel of me to delay you for my own selfish reasons," Niall wants to ask what those reasons would be, wants to ask Harry to come with him, wants to ask Harry if this has ended before it even had a chance to fully start. But his throat's too tight to get any other words out, so he just nods and chews on his nail.

The Styles' carriage is all slick black wood glinting in the morning sun, with wheels that almost come up to Niall's neck. A man's already climbing into the bench seat at the front, collecting the reins in his hand. Niall rocks on his feet, not wanting to say goodbye but knowing that he shouldn't delay any longer. The faster he gets back to Little Moreton, the better. "Promise me something, Niall," he looks back at Harry, taking his face in just in case he doesn't see it again.

"What?"

"Don't go looking for him, please. Let your father and the Sergeant deal with it."

"You think I'm going to go looking for a duel or something?"

Harry shrugs, "No, I don't, but I'll sleep better anyway knowing that it's not a possibility if you’ve promised me you won’t." He takes Niall's hand, thumb stroking lightly over Niall's knuckles.

"Well, I promise. Both for your sake and because I know Sophia would probably shoot me for even thinking it over. My only plan is to get home and try to keep everyone else from falling apart. If I can," he has his doubts, really, but he's going to do his best in his father's absence.

"You can," Harry kisses the back of his hand and then pulls him in for another tight hug, "All will be well, Niall. I'll see you again soon." That's something Niall can cling to.

"Promise?" it's foolish, childish even, but if Harry wants a silly promise then Niall thinks it's only fair that he gets one too. He feels Harry grinning against his temple.

"I promise. I love you," Niall goes willingly into the kiss, memorizing the way Harry tastes, the way he sighs against Niall's lips. He prays that it’s not the last time he’ll get to kiss him.

"I love you too," he'll hold onto that, take it in his chest like a piece of tinder with a weak flame to be protected at all costs. Harry kisses him one more time and then helps him up and into the carriage. Niall tilts his head against the seat, forcing himself not to look back as the carriage rolls into motion, picking up speed as it heads away from Capesthorne.

///

Harry does his best to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach as he watches the carriage speed off, carrying Niall away before Harry was at all ready to let him go. But he can’t let himself dwell on that for too long, not when he has work to do now. He jogs back inside, planning on heading straight for his bedroom but meeting his mother by the stairs. "What’s happened?" she asks, arms crossed over her chest, “Where’s Niall?”

"Niall's had a family emergency. He needed to leave immediately, and I need to leave as well for somewhat related reasons," he steps past his mother, nimbly avoiding her attempt to grab his arm.

Undeterred, she follows him instead, steps light on the stone stairs, "Is his family alright?"

"No, it's," Harry stops walking so abruptly that his mother bumps into his back with a muffled oof. He pinches his nose, trying to clear his head enough to figure out a plan. It's not just that he trusts his mother enough to tell her because of course he does. He’d trust his mother with anything. It's that he thinks he might need her _help._ "Niall's youngest sister went to Hull with a friend whose father is the leader of the militia that used to be stationed in their town. Niall's parents got word that she's run off with Zayn," Anne's eyes ice over, her nostrils flaring, "Niall's father is trying to find them, make sure that they get married, but I doubt that's in Zayn's plan and if he can't be convinced—"

"She'll be ruined. They all will," his mother supplies.

"Niall's gone home to keep his mother and other sisters from falling apart."

"And why are _you_ leaving?"

"I'm going to look for the pair too," he starts walking again, pushing the door to his bedroom open. The maids have already come in to make the bed but there's a lingering scent of sex in the air. If he was in a more normal state, he might be a little more embarrassed by that. As it is, his only goal is to pack and get ready to leave. He wants Niall _back_ in that bed as soon as possible and for that to happen, someone’s going to have to convince Zayn to marry Perrie.

His mother pulls open his dresser, handing him a pile of fresh shirts, "Did you tell Niall that?"

"No, because then he would've wanted to come as well, and he's needed at home. And—well, I'd rather not have him there if I need to confront Zayn again," ages ago, after he'd successfully rescued his sister from Zayn's grasp and watched his mother comfort her on the carriage ride back home, he'd promised himself that he'd never deal with Zayn Malik again. Now he's going to _have_ to talk to the man, likely pay him too just to ensure that he marries the chit.

He catches the sight of a now wilting forget-me-not on his bedside table and his chest swells. _Niall_ will be worth it. He's probably the _only_ thing that makes any of this worth it. Niall's been waiting so long for someone to love him like he _deserves,_ Harry's been waiting his whole life (whether he knew it or not) to find someone that gives him a _reason_ like Niall has now—he's going to see this through no matter what it takes.

"Where will you go?" his mother shoos him away from his trunk when he dumps the shirts in there unceremoniously.

"I don't know. If Zayn has no intention on marrying her, I doubt they're truly on the way to Scotland. I might go to London instead, see if I can find him there. Louis and Liam might be able to help." Seeing Liam would certainly give him a chance to fix two problems at once, and if it's something to help Sophia at all, Harry knows that Liam will assist without hesitation. _And_ he needs to be in London to get Niall a ring to finish up their engagement properly. No matter what happens, he’s still marrying Niall.

"The more people on this—who can be trusted to be discreet—the better, I think. I don't know that they'll be able to avoid the gossip entirely if this goes on for too long, but time is not on their side when it comes to salvaging their reputations," Harry leans against his bed, fully giving up the task of packing to his mother, who's already neatly arranging pants in his trunk. He has to wait for their carriage to come back from dropping Niall off anyway.

He reaches out, picking the wilted flower up and rolling the stem between his fingers, "Can you think of other options while I'm gone? If anyone could figure out how to save their reputations, it would be you."

Anne chuckles, carefully flattening out a jacket before shutting the lid of the trunk. "You might be overstating my influence, love, but I would certainly try. On one condition though."

"Which is?"

"You will _not,_ under _any_ circumstances, elope with Niall," Harry can't help the loud laugh that bursts out of his throat. Anne waggles her finger, "I'm not joking, Harry. I've waited for this long to see you get married and I _refuse_ to miss out on it because the two of you decide to do something on your own."

"I promise, Mum, I won't elope. You'll have Niall to fight on the wedding itself though," Harry doubts that Niall will want a wedding with all the trimmings and trappings like his mother probably does, and Harry wants what Niall wants.

His mother shrugs, "I think I can handle him."

"You haven't dealt with a Niall eager to argue." Harry's going to have to work out a balance for things, he thinks. Because he quite adores it when Niall argues with him over something silly, but he also knows he'll bend over backwards to give Niall anything he wants. He's going to have to start manufacturing some arguments maybe.

"I look forward to the experience then. Almost as much as I look forward to seeing you happy with someone," Harry's cheeks warm and biting his lip does little to stop the way he wants to smile. They _will_ be happy. Harry likes to think that they already are as of right now, having skipped straight to a glorious wedding night/morning without Harry even having to propose again first, but they'll be even _happier._ This is just a speed bump, one he intends to smooth over as quickly as he can.


	6. I don't wanna think about a life without you, I don't wanna go to war but I'm about to

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Niall tries to keep it all together, Harry goes to war (metaphorically)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from Finneas' Shelter.

The house is so quiet that Niall almost wants to back up and double check that he is, in fact, walking into Little Moreton. He can hear the grandfather clock in their kitchen ticking, a steady rhythm that he only ever hears when he's up in the dead of night. It's just past dinner time now as he drops his trunk on the floor with a bang that feels far too loud compared to everything else. Sophia appears at the top of the steps, hair falling out of her bun and dark circles visible under her eyes even from this distance. "Thank god," she murmurs, taking the steps two at a time and flinging herself into Niall's arms. He grunts, stumbling backwards, but then he holds on tight. "When did you get my letter?"

"This morning," it's not the time or place to tell her that he wasn't at the Millers when he got it, "What's happened since you wrote it?"

Sophia reaches down, grabbing one handle on his trunk. Niall takes the other and they begin the journey upstairs to his room. Their mother's door is closed, but he can hear the muffled tell-tale sounds of her fretting anyway. He'll have to help deal with that too. "Papa left to meet Sgt. Nelson, like I told you he would. He said he'll write again as soon as he got news or found them."

"Hopefully, that happens soon. You said you thought Julia knew more than she was saying?" After spending the night in Harry's decadent bedroom, Niall's little attic haven looks shabbier than ever. His bed's miniscule, the cobwebs in the corners of the low ceiling are far from a pleasing decoration, and it just feels _dark._ He should still be at Capesthorne right now, not home and leaping headfirst with the rest of his family into disaster. He puts his trunk down, leaving it by his catastrophe of a wardrobe (half of which is spilling out on the floor from his efforts in packing for his trip), and leads Sophia over to his bed.

She sinks down with a sigh that sounds too big for her body, like it takes everything out of her until she's just bones. "I talked to her last night. She said that Perrie was infatuated with Mr. Malik even before they left for Hull. One of Perrie's last letters to Julia mentioned something about 'finally getting what she wanted,' so Julia doesn't think it was as sudden or unplanned as it seems," she tugs pins out of her hair, piling them in her lap one by one with shaking fingers. "Do you think he'll actually marry her?" Niall bites his tongue. Sophia sighs again, "I supposed I shouldn't have even bothered asking."

"Papa will find them and do whatever it takes to sort things out. It might leave us all beggars but—"

"I would rather be ruined than reduced to that," Sophia hisses, more fire than he's seen from her in ages and he jolts back just a little as if her heat would burn him. He watches as she stands up, heading over to close the door to his bedroom. "We've spent our _whole lives,_ Niall, trying to keep this family together. _We've_ been wasting our _bloody_ youth on trying to keep it all together and I'm so damn _sick_ of it. I want to be my own person and do something without worrying about what everyone else is doing and I swear to _God_ that I would rather move back to Ireland on my _own_ than sit around here reduced to _nothing_ because our sister's foolishness has put us all in jeopardy."

She paces the length of his bedroom, hands fisted at her sides, "All I've been thinking about is what Mr. Styles said in that letter and _he's right_ , Niall. I love our sisters and our parents, I really do, but we've been sacrificing _so much_ for them all these years and only coming off the worse for it. Mr. Styles is an arse for making assumptions about my intentions to Mr. Payne, but he wasn't pulling them out of thin air! And the more I think about it, the less I can even blame him for it. Our father hides in his study, our mother hasn't had a sensible thought cross her mind in years, Ashlyn doesn't have the spine to handle anyone else, Julia and Perrie can't pull together a lick of dignity between them—it's all been _on us_ to stop things from falling apart and I just—I just—"

Sophia stops, her back to Niall but he sees the way she hugs herself, fingers digging into the fabric of her dress. "Soph," he murmurs, getting up and pulling her into his arms.

She buries her face in his shoulder, "Mama's spent the last three days alternating between bemoaning that Perrie's going to be the ruin of us all and _praising_ her for being so _inventive_ in snaring a husband. Saying that I should've been just as _inventive_ with Liam to _force_ him to marry me, as if I could live with myself for doing anything as underhanded as that. Saying that you and I are a total lost hope at this point, like we're _burdens,_ and I just wanted to scream at her and—"

"We're not lost hopes, Sophia," he whispers into her hair, holding her a little tighter.

"It wasn't _our_ fault, Niall. All we've _ever_ done is try to keep things from falling apart and I’m so _sick_ of feeling like we’re being punished for it," her tears are soaking his shirt, warm and heavy, and Niall wonders how long she's been thinking all this. Wonders if he's been so stuck in his own head that he's missed signs that she was fraying at the seams this much. _He's_ the one that's supposed to snap like this, not Sophia.

"We did what we could, sis. It’s not fair, it’s _never_ been fair, but it’s—well, I guess there’s never been another option. But if it comes down to it, I'll move back home with you too, alright?" he means that, even when the question of Harry is looming over his head and stained on his skin where Sophia can't see. They stand there in the quiet of his room until Sophia's shoulders have stopped trembling as much and her breathing slows.

She pulls back with a sniffle, rubbing her cheeks with the heel of her hand, "Sorry, I didn't mean to welcome you home like that."

"Don't apologize, Soph. I love you. We'll get through this," he wipes another tear off her face.

"Thank you for coming home," she breathes out, eyes still watering a little, "I know you were probably enjoying the trip but I just—I couldn't do this all alone."

"Nowhere else I could be, sis. Now come on, I should talk to Mama and she can berate me for being unmarried for a while," Sophia's soft laugh crackles a bit with leftover shudders, but she takes his hand and lets him guide her out of his room.

///

Niall's not a man built for moping. He doesn't have it in him, gets far too restless with any attempt to stare morosely out the window and wallow in his fear. But he's also not a man built for being on uncertain ground and he feels like they’re all living on a ship right now, constantly tossing in a storm and leaving him to grip railings and walls just to keep upright.

It's funny, honestly. He walked into Capesthorne not even expecting to see Harry at all, had woken up in bed with the older man hoping for an official proposal in between countless kisses and wandering hands, and then had left in a hurry for Congleton with nothing but fear and worry in his heart. The problem is that he can hear Harry's beautiful voice murmuring _"I love you"_ in his ear just as clearly as he can hear how Harry’s voice had dropped as he'd said, _"If someone doesn't find them, this could ruin your entire family."_ He understands the ripple effect being ruined has, like spilling ink on a pristine shirt and watching it spread like poison outwards to stain everything it touches.

And even though all they've had over the past week are two letters from their father—the first saying that they thought Perrie and Zayn had gone to London rather than Scotland and the second saying that Willie had joined the search party—the whole house feels stained anyway. After her outburst in his bedroom, Niall's been doing his best to shoulder the weight of the entire household so Sophia doesn't have to worry about it. His mother's the hardest to deal with, willfully shut away in her room because of her _nerves_ and forcing everyone else to cater to her on top of the rest of the disasters they’re trying to manage. By the second day, gossip was starting to bubble without restraint in the great cauldron that is Congleton. Niall had gone into town to get food and was bombarded with enough side glances and leading questions that he ended up snapping so fiercely at someone who wouldn’t stop asking leading questions that he'd rendered the entire butcher's store silent.

He's not sure how much more of this he can take. There's simply too much hanging in the balance. He's worried about all his sisters, he's worried about his mother, he's worried about _himself._ Everything hinges on this one goal—getting Perrie and Zayn to an altar—and there's no telling how long that could take or whether it will even happen. Despite what Harry told him, he still blames himself too. Sure, he doubts that Perrie would’ve listened to his warnings about Zayn, but he should’ve _tried_ anyway. He should’ve done a lot of things differently, he thinks, going back months.

Niall's bitten his nails raw, gotten used to the copper of blood lingering on his tongue as he paces any room he can get a moment of solitude in, writing songs with the frantic beat of his shoes on the wood floors in the dead of night. It's easy when everyone just thinks he's as concerned about Perrie as they are. Nobody's asked many questions yet. But nobody's seen the slowly fading bruises on his neck, the only physical trace left of the man he loves. Nobody knows about Harry _other_ than Niall and his shoulders are going to crumple under this weight eventually.

They'd talked about skipping the wedding night, joked about the rest of their lives, but they hadn't gone further than that. Maybe they would have if that letter hadn't arrived, but it had and it ruined everything in its wake. All he's got now is the fact that Harry loves him facing down against the looming threat of being ruined and untouchable. A man of Harry's status, interacting with people at court and conducting business across the whole of England, can't marry a ruined man and escape censure. It would cast a shadow on Gemma as well, hurt her own marriage prospects, and Niall knows Harry would never let that happen. That stings more than he'd like to admit, stings more than the fact that his bed has never felt colder or smaller as it does now.

He shifts his weight, staring out at the rising sun and waiting for his sister to meet him outside for their morning walk. His hair's a disaster from how often he's running his hands through it and he knows his mother would be complaining more if she was capable of thinking about anything other than herself right now. There's no point in trying to flatten it and he'll excuse it as bedhead if Sophia asks. He'd thought about begging off, staying in bed for once even though it's a perfectly lovely morning, but it's not like he was sleeping anyway. He needs to keep _moving_ just to stop himself from thinking too much. He's avoiding his fears just as much as he's forcing his mind away from the fresh, glorious memories of Harry underneath him in bed, skin glowing under the morning sun as Niall spread him over the sheets and took him apart piece by shivering piece.

"You look absolutely awful," Sophia says as she steps outside, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders.

"And good morning to you too, dearest sister," Niall replies, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Sophia surveys him for a moment, nose wrinkling up, before she gently tugs one of his hands free to clasp hers.

"Are you alright?" she asks.

"Just tired," he doesn't even mean to yawn, but he supposes that it gives credence to his half-lie. Sophia looks unconvinced, doubt sharp and glinting in her familiar eyes, but she lets him set the pace as they start walking. They walk in silence for a while, far less comfortable than usual for them even by the standards of the last week, but Niall doesn't know what to say, what banal topic he could use as a conversation starter. Perhaps he's just too tired to even pretend to hide it all this morning, too exhausted to fully focus on maintaining the emotional dam he's been keeping up. He doesn't want to worry Sophia more right now, especially about something that feels so thoroughly selfish, but he thinks he might just have an outburst of his own soon if he doesn’t tell her. She’s the only person here he _could_ tell, and the words are balling themselves up in his chest like they're having a bar fight just to decide who comes out first. Sophia eventually steers them off their usual path and down to a spot by the creek. Niall follows without question, listening to the wet sounds of their footsteps on the dew-covered grass.

Sophia lifts herself up onto the one large rock by the creek, the one she always says is shaped like a sitting bunny and Niall insists is a ladybug, and pats the stone next to her. "Tell me what's wrong, Nialler," she says, tugging her legs up to her chest.

"I told you—" she punches him in the arm, far too hard for how early it is. He grunts, rubbing the sore spot.

"Don't _lie._ Something's wrong. You let me get everything out and now it's your turn."

"You know what's wrong. Same as everyone else in the family. We have a nitwit for a sister."

"No—well, yes, obviously, but there's something else bothering you, I can tell," she nudges his arm with her elbow. Niall stays quiet, chewing on his thumb, and maybe it's a sign of Sophia's concern that she doesn't even try to stop him. "You know you can trust me, right?"

"Course I do," he says instantly, not wanting her to ever doubt that, "I just—I don't know." He rolls his neck on his shoulders, thinking nothing of it until he hears Sophia gasp.

"What on _earth_ happened to your neck!?" Niall jumps so high that he nearly topples off the rock, clapping his hand to the side of his neck facing her, but the damage is done. Sophia's eyes are as wide as full moons as she reaches out, tugging his collar to the side and putting all those bruises on full display, "Niall James Horan, you tell me what happened _right now._ "

He supposes that, embarrassing as this is, it’s a way to start at least. He takes a deep breath, focusing his attention on the creek and not the way Sophia’s thumb is brushing over his pulse, "When I was visiting Willie and Laura, we visited Capesthorne Hall. I didn't know it was so close to their house and when we went, their housekeeper said that the family was out and—"

"Wait, wait, who owns Capesthorne?"

"The Styles family," Sophia leans back slowly, brow knitting together as her hand falls away from his neck. Niall swallows and plows forward, needing to get it all out before his anxiety makes him clam up, "They weren't supposed to be home. We toured the house and then I went walking around their grounds alone and I—I ran into Harry. And that led to us staying for dinner and then _me_ being invited to stay the night by his mother and sister and we—Harry and I—" His throat closes off and he closes his eyes just to avoid the remotest possibility of having to look at Sophia. He's grateful for her silence though, the way she gives him time to collect himself again enough to continue. He swallows again, "We slept together. Twice."

"I thought you hated him," Sophia says slowly once she's realized that he's not going to say anything else.

Niall nods, "I did, for a while. Or I thought I did, at least. But—I don’t know, Soph, he was always stuck in my head from the moment we met in a way that nobody else’s ever been, no matter how hard I tried to forget or ignore him. After I learned the truth about Zayn, I started to doubt and then—then seeing him with his family, seeing how open and happy he can be when he's comfortable—" He stops again, shakes his head as his chest turns, tightens and aches like fate’s putting him in a vice to remind him of the precarious situation he’s in right now, "I'm in love with him, Sophia. And he loves me, he _honestly_ does, even if I can't figure out why."

"Oh, Nialler," she murmurs, wrapping her arm around his shoulders and leaning into his side.

"Nothing—nothing's _ever_ felt so right as being with him for that one night, Soph. It felt like I was _home,_ like I'd found something that I never knew was missing. It's—it's _exactly_ what I've been waiting for all this time but even better than I could’ve ever dreamed. The way he—" he has to stop, squeezing his eyes shut to stop the tears welling at his lashes.

"I won't pretend that I'm not surprised, but I'm so glad you've found what you were looking for. I'm just not sure why it's upsetting you so much. Surely, that's a good thing?" she tries, rubbing his arm.

"It would've been, if I hadn't gotten your letter about Perrie before we'd really talked anything out, made anything formal outside of a joke I made about the wedding night. And then he pointed out how Perrie's actions could ruin all of us and—Sophia, I don't think he's going to marry someone ruined by association. I haven't heard from him at all since I left and part of me feels like I'll never see him again and," one tear pushes through his best attempts at defense, leaking down his cheek. He stops again, presses the back of his hand to his mouth to stifle whatever noise is clawing its way out of his throat. It doesn't do much though, not when Sophia's hand moves to the base of his neck, and he's grateful when she tugs him in closer and lets him press his face into her chest. "If I hadn't been such a damn fool, this could've been sorted ages ago," he chokes out into the soft cotton of her shawl.

"If you'd agreed to his first proposal, I would've worried about your mental state, Niall. That would've been beneath you entirely," she's right but that doesn't stop the bitter regret that's tinging everything right now. Harry _did_ propose once, officially and everything, and Niall turned him down outright. She tucks his head under her chin, a reverse of how he's held her so many times, "But we're not ruined yet, right? Don't drown yourself in sorrow quite yet."

"I'm just—God help me, Soph, but I'm just _scared,"_ he admits for the first time, "Scared of how much I love him, scared of how much it'll hurt if I lose him." That vice squeezes his chest tighter at the thought.

"Nothing's lost yet, Niall. Let's wait and see what happens. I'm sure Mr. Miller and Papa will be able to find Perrie and Zayn; they'll get it sorted out," he's got nothing else to say—at least, nothing that would be coherent rather than an endless stream of babbled fears. Sophia kisses the crown of his head, smoothing his hair back, "You've waited so long to find someone you love; I simply refuse to believe it'll be lost so quickly. Especially if he loves you as much as you say he does. I understand why you’re worried, but I’ve never thought of Mr. Styles as the kind of man who would change his mind on something that important so quickly."

"Hope you're right, petal," he mumbles through a sniffle.

Sophia hums, "You say I'm always right, so might as well trust me on this one too."

///

Their father arrives home unexpectedly, his rugged face tired and drawn, just after breakfast several days later. Niall pauses, halfway down the steps. "Did you—" Niall starts as his father puts his hat on the top of their coat rack.

"Give me a moment, Niall," his father says wearily. Niall's not sure he's ever seen his father look so _old._ He follows Bobby back to his study, catching Sophia's attention in the kitchen as they pass. His father has barely even sat in his desk chair when Sophia enters, wiping her flour-stained hands on her apron. "Well, should the two of you wish to do it, I will sit here without complaint as you say that you told me so," he slowly removes his spectacles, wiping them on his sleeve. Niall rocks on his feet and Sophia bites her lip. Niall wants to _—genuinely_ wants to and knows that he has every _right_ to say it—but his father already looks so defeated that he can't bring himself to add to that. Bobby looks at both of them, _"_ Please, feel free. You were both quite right; you saw what would happen and tried to warn me and I didn’t listen. Your censure would be quite deserved, and I would have no real defense for it."

"Papa, it's—what's done is done now," Sophia murmurs, "What matters now is how we can fix it."

"As always, dear, you're far too kind for your own good," Bobby’s sad smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

"Any luck with finding them?" Niall's not expecting good news but the way his father shakes his head still feels like a punch to the gut.

"We know they're somewhere in London, but that's as much as we’d managed to discover before Willie convinced me to return home to check on you all. I told him that I was sure the two of you had things well in hand, but he said that he could take it from here. Sgt. Nelson had already returned to his duties in Hull, so our fate rests in the hands of the Millers now," Sophia sinks into a nearby chair, staring resolutely at the ground. Niall reaches over, squeezing her shoulder.

"What're Willie and Laura planning to do?" as good-natured and jovial as they are, Niall knows that the Millers will do everything they can to find Zayn and Perrie. When he’d told them about what happened after being dropped off in Harry’s carriage, they’d been quick to help him pack and promised him they’d do what they could.

"What I cannot: network," his father's smile is wry, "As it turns out, having a wide friend circle in London can come in handy in moments like this. Willie said he was confident that they would be able to find some thread that would lead them to the pair. After that, the only question is what we'll have to do to get them married."

"You don't think it's a love match then."

"Of course not. Perhaps on Perrie's side. She's young enough to fancy herself quite in love with everyone who does so much as smile at her. On his side though, no. Judging by his friends in the militia, it seems that his only goal was something far more temporary and carnal in nature and she was simply the easiest mark. He probably had no inkling that she’d agree to take this as far as it’s gotten. Still, I have no doubt that getting him to marry her will require a significant amount of money," Sophia hunches further in on herself, just barely trembling when Niall squeezes her shoulder again. Niall should feel bad about being surprised for the way his father notices her distress, "Don't fret, my dear Sophia. We shall weather it, if only to ensure that the rest of you don’t get tarred by the same brush. God knows none of you deserve it. Willie said that he would assist if we needed him to pitch in, but I don't fancy being in debt to him anymore than I like the idea of being forced to pay a scoundrel to do the honorable thing."

If it were up to Niall, he thinks he'd keep his pockets closed and apply a little more pressure. He supposes that's why Harry made him promise not to go after Zayn himself. "If they won't wed—" Sophia starts.

Bobby hums, his smile a little kinder now, "They _will_ wed, Sophia. I can guarantee you that." It's easy to say, of course, but Niall knows that it’s much harder to _actually_ guarantee. Niall feels Sophia reach up to squeeze his hand back, almost tight enough to hurt. “I know that I said the same thing before she left for Hull, back when the two of you were trying to make me see the folly in letting her go, but all will be well, no matter what we have to do to make that happen.” Niall didn’t believe his father back then and he doesn’t know if he believes him now either, not when it feels like they’re all fighting a hopeless battle. 

///

“Well, that was less than ideal but I suppose better than it could’ve been,” Louis says as they watch Zayn help his new giggling bride into the carriage Harry hired to take them back to their lodgings with Zayn’s old co-conspirator that had assisted in his attempt to ruin Gemma. That was merely one of the many distressing things of this whole debacle. “I was half-certain that he wouldn’t show up.”

“I would’ve dragged him into that chapel by his toes if he’d tried to avoid his responsibility again,” Harry replies crisply. His own carriage should be arriving shortly, ready to take him to Liam’s house so he can try and remedy the other main issue here in London. 

Louis looks at him, eyebrows raised, “You did the right thing, Haz. I know you didn’t want to give him anything, but better that than leave a silly young girl like that ruined.” Harry hums, checking his pocket watch. He didn’t do it for Perrie at all, but he knows that he’ll sound like an absolute arse if he says that (even to Louis, who’s always been more interested in being practical than polite). He did it for Niall and, in that sense, it was worth every cent he’d paid out.

And, he supposes, he did it for Sophia as well, “Yes, well, at least it’s done with now.”

“Hopefully, that’s the last time you’ll ever have to see him, right? Not like we go to Brighton all that often.”

Harry licks his lips. He has yet to tell anyone here about his plans for Niall, but he supposes that now’s as good of a time as any. “I wish. Unfortunately for me though, I think that the chances that I’ll be able to permanently avoid my future brother-in-law are lower than I’d like,” he picks at his nails, glancing at Louis out of the corner of his eye.

“Your future brother-in—,” Louis groans, rubbing his face with his palm, “Christ, Harry, don’t tell me you’re going after the Horan lad again.”

“Technically, I’ve already gone and gotten him this time,” Harry murmurs as his carriage rolls up, the driver hopping down to open the door for him. Louis, without being invited, slides in after Harry.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I did everything right this time when we saw each other and if my mother wasn’t insisting on a proper wedding, I would’ve gotten a special license by now,” he’d debated doing it anyway when he got the special license for Zayn and Perrie a few days ago, but he doesn’t want to break his promise to his mother. He’s mildly terrified of what would happen if he did.

Louis stares at him, eyes narrowing, “ _That’s_ why you did all this, isn’t it? You were doing it all for him.” Harry shrugs, thinking that maybe it gives him some level of plausible deniability if he doesn’t flat out _say_ so.

Avoiding his best friend’s gaze, he focuses on twisting one of his rings around his finger. It’s his father’s signet ring, the most familiar of all he owns and usually his favorite. He remembers being fascinated with it as a child, always trying to steal it off his father’s hand to wear it on his own long before his fingers were remotely able to manage the size. Now he’s just waiting for it to take second place to a wedding band. “I love him,” he murmurs to his bare left ring finger.

“Well, we knew that. ‘s not like you haven’t spent the last few months being a grumpy old sod because of it. But you implied that he—well, that he despised you after the _first_ time you tried proposing, so what changed?”

Harry smiles, rubbing his nose, “I thought he despised me and maybe he thought he did too. But things changed for both of us between now and then and he loves me too.” He’s been focusing on the memory of Niall saying that to get him through everything with Zayn. He’ll hear it again soon from Niall’s own lips and that’s been enough to keep him going.

Louis frowns skeptically back at him from the other seat, “He loves you just like that? When he hasn’t seen you in months and you didn’t even know if he _liked_ you then?”

“I think it took him a while to figure it out, but I know that he meant it when he told me that loved me,” and Niall can’t take it back now either. Harry’s running with it, clutching that love to his chest like he’s stealing the crown jewels and trying to make it into international waters before anyone can catch him.

“How’d you even run into him again? I didn’t think you were ever planning on going back to Congleton,” Louis stretches out on his side of the carriage, propping one foot up on his other knee.

“He was staying with family friends near Holmes Chapel actually. One of them knows my mother, so they’d stopped by to show him Capesthorne the same day that I got home and we ran into each other.”

“And what, you dropped to your knees and did some overdramatic profession of love that he returned?”

Harry rolls his eyes, “ _No._ Not quite, at least. He stayed for dinner and then ended up staying the night. We talked and, once we were on the same page, did more than talking.” Harry _did_ drop to his knees at that point, but he’s never been as cavalier as Louis is on discussing his sex life. And Niall’s different from the rest of his casual acquaintances. Harry has no interest in spilling details on what they do in the bedroom to anyone else.

“And a shag didn’t get him out of your system?”

“On the contrary, it made me even more positive that I’ll never want anyone other than him for the rest of my life.”

Louis’s nose wrinkles, “Lord help me, never thought _you’d_ turn into such a hopeless romantic like Liam.”

Harry smiles out the window, dragging his fingertip over the glass window, “I suppose that’s what finding the love of your life does to you.” Louis pretends to gag. “You know, I was going to offer to make you my best man but now I don’t know if I will.”

“Let’s not get _too_ hasty, Styles,” Harry manages to look stern for only a moment before smiling again. _God,_ he can’t wait to see Niall. It’s like an ache under his skin, a burning desire to head straight for Niall’s side and then never leave. “And here I was, telling his sister not to say anything about you being involved with the wedding because I didn’t think you’d want Niall to know you had anything to do with it,” Harry hadn’t overheard _that_ discussion in the chapel. Before he can ask about it, Louis shrugs, “Look, the girl’s clearly lacking in her capacity to use common sense. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s the first thing she says when she sees her brother, but I thought it was worth a shot. Do you think he’s going to care?”

Harry mulls it over for a moment before shaking his head, “Not in the sense that he’ll be angry. I’m sure he’ll just think that he’s in my debt now, which is absolutely false and I’ll tell him so.”

“Fair enough. Where are we going, by the way? I know I just sort of hopped in without asking first,” if he’s being honest, Harry almost expected Louis to question him more. The fact that he didn’t, that he accepted it with only mild ribbing—and honestly, Harry would’ve worried if Louis hadn’t teased him at all—is nice. It wouldn’t have mattered to him if Louis had raised some other objections since nothing is going to keep him from marrying Niall now, but it would’ve been disappointing if he’d had to get in arguments with his friends about it.

“I need to stop by Liam’s house and talk to him about Sophia.”

“What about her?”

“I was wrong about her motivations. Niall said that she’s still as in love with him as she was before and would take him in a heartbeat. And—well, quite frankly, I don’t think it would be fair of me to warn him off of marrying a Horan only to go and marry one myself,” he still has his concerns about how Liam might handle the rest of the family, but he thinks that he might have underestimated Sophia Horan in more than one way. Perhaps she has more of a spine than he thought.

Louis chuckles, “Might be a wee bit hypocritical, sure.”

“Exactly. So I’d like to set things straight, let Liam make the choice for himself if he still wants her, and apologize for getting in the way.”

“The great Harry Styles actually _apologizing?_ Now I’m really glad that I hopped in here because I have to see this,” Louis, as Harry expected, doesn’t care at all about the way Harry scowls at him.

Thankfully, Liam’s at home and meets them shortly after they’re shown into his drawing room by his butler, “Harry, Louis! To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Our dear Harold’s got something to say to you,” Louis drawls, pushing Harry forward and making him stumble over his own feet, “And I’m here for moral support.”

“Watch out there, H,” Liam tells him, reaching out to steady Harry.

Harry straightens up, tugging on his sleeves and then taking a deep breath. He’d really rather not do this in front of Louis but there’s no avoiding it now, not when the shorter man is leaning casually against a bookshelf and watching him expectantly.

It’s not that Harry _never_ apologizes for things. It’s just that he doesn’t think he frequently has all that much to apologize _for._ But he wants to do this (and told Niall he would) so he licks his lips and draws himself up, “I need to apologize to you, Liam.” Liam looks even more confused, deep wrinkles on his forehead where the curls of his bangs hang loosely. Before Liam can say anything, Harry barrels on, “I was incorrect in my…assessment of Sophia Horan and her intentions. She did genuinely care for you and it’s my understanding that she still does. I’m sorry that I convinced you otherwise and talked you out of proposing. It was unfair of me.”

Liam blinks back at him, mouth half-open. Louis chimes in, “Oh Haz, do explain _why_ it’s unfair of you.”

“You know, you _weren’t_ invited to come along for this,” Harry hisses over his shoulder. Louis grins impishly back at him. Harry clenches his fists and turns back to Liam, “It’s _unfair_ of me because I’m in love with Niall and intend on marrying him. And I really wouldn’t have any ground to stand on, telling you not to marry her because of her family when I’m marrying her twin.”

“I see,” Liam croaks after clearing his throat, “Well, it’s—I have to say, Harry, I think you’re a little late on telling me that for it to do me any good. But thank you anyway, I guess.”

“I don’t think it’s too late, Liam. Niall told me that she’s still quite in love with you. If you proposed, I have every confidence that she’d happily accept.”

Harry’s got the distinct impression that Liam’s trying _awfully hard_ to be mad at him, judging by the way his brow is furrowing and he’s biting his lip like he’s trying to keep frowning instead of smile. Harry’s not sure he’s _ever_ seen Liam be truly mad now that he thinks about it, only annoyed or exasperated (usually with Louis). “So you—you admit that you were wrong?” he starts.

 _Knowing_ that Louis is only smirking wider, Harry keeps his eyes on Liam, “Yes. I was wrong.”

“And you—you think I should go see her again?” Liam rocks forward as if he’s just waiting for the first chance to take off for Congleton on foot.

“Honestly, Liam, I think this time I’ll leave it entirely up to you rather than put my opinion in there.”

Liam seems to mull that over before humming, “Yes, it’s—it isn’t up to you, is it?” Harry shakes his head, fighting the urge to laugh. He thinks Liam might be the world’s most permissible father one day if his children have any level of steel in their spine. Or perhaps Sophia will level that out, give him balance the same way Niall balances Harry. “But you _are_ sure that she’d still have me if I were to ask?”

“I don’t think anyone in the world knows her better than her brother and he told me she would,” Liam takes a stilted step towards the door but stops, foot hovering for a moment. He looks back at Harry with that signature “hopeful Liam” expression that makes Harry feel like he’s just signed up for something he’ll regret.

“I think you owe me, Harry,” Liam begins, “and I’m calling in that favor now.”

Harry supposes that he does owe Liam and also knows without the slightest doubt that he’s going to regret whatever he’s about to agree to now. Something scrapes behind him and he turns to see Louis pulling an armchair closer to the center of the room. He flops into it, putting his arms behind his head and crossing his legs, “Come on then, let’s see what favor you’re calling in.” Harry grits his teeth, looking purposefully back at Liam.

“I want to practice my proposal. You can stand in for Sophia,” Harry’s not sure what’s worse: Louis’ instantaneous cackle, how _bashful_ Liam looks, or the fact that he’s about to stand here and be fake-proposed to for (knowing Liam) at least the next hour.

He takes a long breath, exhaling slow and gathering his patience. “Better for you to use him as practice and not an example since he bungled his first one,” Louis chirps. With his hands behind his back, Harry gives Louis the finger.

It doesn’t help that Liam replies, “Oh, I know, that’s why I didn’t ask him for advice on _how_ to do it. I’d rather not offend Sophia.”

“I hate you both,” Harry grumbles.

“That doesn’t sound very Sophia of you, Harry. I doubt she’s ever said the word ‘hate’ in her life. At least _try_ to play the part faithfully for Liam, would you?” Louis isn’t serious but Liam nods like he completely agrees.

“I _do_ have other things I need to do today,” Harry says through his teeth, “So while I’m willing to help you out here, Liam, it would be nice if we could get on with it.”

“What would your beloved _Niall_ think, hearing you imitate his sister so poorly?”

“ _Louis,”_ Harry growls, ready to go tear his friend’s head off, but Liam steps in first.

“Harry’s right, actually. The faster I can get my practice in, the faster I can go to Congleton and propose,” Liam beams at Harry with that typical toothy grin, “I really do appreciate this, mate.”

“Anytime,” Harry fibs, knowing that he’s never doing this again. If Louis ever wants to practice, he can find someone else to stand in. Then again, Harry consistently does his best to never be in Louis’ debt in the first place. Only danger lurks down that road.

///

Niall wasn't expecting the general mood of the household to change at all after his father came home so he’s not surprised when it stays the same. Honestly, with his father returning to spend his entire time locked away in his study, avoiding Maura and her hysterics outright while leaving Sophia and Niall to keep running things as usual, it almost feels like he didn’t come home at all. The mood of the town switches though, the gossip only more voracious in the wake of his father's return without Perrie. Niall takes over all household responsibility for going into town, wanting to prevent his sisters from being subject to the judgement of people he's always considered friendly neighbors. It's been ages since he's heard anyone make some disparaging comment about them being Irish and, when he hears it from one of the town's resident drunkards, barely restrains himself from knocking the man out entirely. He satisfies himself with tripping the man and watching him topple into a horse trough. Holly would’ve appreciated that.

He comes back from one trip bearing both fresh pastries from the bakery and their mail. The former is his priority until he realizes that one of the letters, the bulkiest of the bunch, has the Millers' London address at the top corner of the envelope. Even though it's not polite—the letter's addressed to his father after all—he starts opening it shortly after dropping the pastries off on the table in the parlor. But he only gets two lines into the letter before his guilt gets the better of him and he stuffs it back into the envelope to give it to his father.

He regrets doing that when his father seems to take _ages_ to read the damn thing and all Niall can do is pace the length of the study, biting his tongue and trying to decipher the shifts in his father's facial expressions. Finally, with a sigh that shakes the room, Bobby puts the letter down. "Well, it's done."

"Done? What do you mean?"

"They will be married within the week if they aren’t already by now. In my place, Willie agreed that _I_ would agree to paying off Mr. Malik's debts in Congleton as laid out," his father holds up a folded-up bundle of paper, "here and to provide them with a stipend of one thousand pounds a year. Mr. Malik’s debts in Hull and London are being otherwise taken care of. It would seem that our new family member lives well outside his means."

"I’m not surprised. But still, the rest of it’s good news isn't it?" his father hums, leaning back in his chair and running his fingers along the creased edge of the letter.

"Certainly. Nobody's ruined and all we have to do is live with is that man for an in-law."

"But?"

"Something doesn't add up, that’s all. I was expecting him to make higher demands but this—this seems like a pittance in light of everything else," Niall supposes that that's right. Zayn's spent so much time trying to find a girl with a large dowry that this seems miniscule in comparison. But if they're married, that's what matters. "I'm almost afraid to know how much I'll owe Willie for this. Whatever deal he made has put us—put _me—_ in his debt for far more than just money," his father adds in a softer voice, staring out the window, "Don't get me wrong, son. I'm glad that it's ending with a wedding. But…" Bobby trails off. Niall waits, tongue between his teeth, but all his father does is sigh again and pull himself to his feet. "Come on then, I suppose it's time to break the news to everyone else." 

Predictably, their mother is the only one who is outright overjoyed rather than just relieved. "Oh, how _lovely!_ Finally, we have a child married off—and to such a handsome man!" Niall grits his teeth to stop himself from saying that Zayn's looks are perhaps the only good thing about him, "It's so unfortunate that they couldn't be married here at Little Moreton, with all her family and friends." Ashlyn rolls her eyes from behind her pianoforte. Julia's staring at the window, a pout on her face, and Niall wonders if she's realizing that Perrie's not just coming home the way she was supposed to before.

"Mama, surely you understand that that's not possible," Sophia cautions, her voice thin.

Maura scoffs, tugging at the lace shawl around her shoulders, "And why shouldn’t it be?" Sophia opens her mouth, shoulders already setting in a firm line, but Niall's not willing to listen to any attempts at sugarcoating it. Not after the hell they've all been living in for the past few weeks.

"Because she spent the last few weeks living with a man in London, unsupervised and unmarried, and that's already done more than enough to endanger our good name," he snaps.

"Niall, that's quite enough," his father murmurs, not quite sharp but also enough to make Niall bite his tongue. But that won’t be enough to silence him permanently, not when Maura’s only going to complain about it more, so he pushes himself off the wall, slipping out the open door and heading outside. It's cloudy, the afternoon sun dulled and twisted by the gathering puffs of grey clouds, thick like smoke and threatening a storm.

He should be—no, he _is_ glad that Perrie will be wed. It's what they were all hoping for, of course, and it’s saved their family from social ruin. But like his father said, something seems off about it _and_ Niall now has to live with the knowledge that Zayn is his brother-in-law. He wonders if Harry would accept that and doubts he would after everything Zayn's done to him. Maybe Niall wouldn't be worth being connected to Zayn again after all this time.

Everything comes _back_ to Harry, the way it has since the first night they'd laid eyes on each other. Maybe Niall should just go to Capesthorne himself. Show up on Harry's doorstep unannounced again and try to get an answer on what happens now. He just thought he would've _heard_ from Harry by now, a letter at least. The fear that he's going to uphold his side of the promise while Harry doesn't is getting far more tangible, made more powerful by his worry that he's not _enough_. That worry’s burrowing itself deeper and deeper in his chest now that he and Harry are apart, and their night together feels increasingly like some sort of glorious fantasy.

"Well, we're not ruined," Sophia says when she emerges through the back door minutes later to stand at his side, just close enough for their arms to brush.

"No, we're not."

"Doesn't make this any better though, does it?" he knew she'd understand it, "Even with this, it's—the damage was done."

"Yes, it was," sighing does nothing to get rid of his tension, but he manages to at least half-smile at Sophia when she rubs his back, "What happened after I left?"

She snorts, "Mama continued to complain that they can't get married here. Papa said that if he had his way, they'd never be welcome in this house again, and told Julia that she'd be lucky to ever attend another event with a single man in a red coat. Mama threw a tantrum, Julia threw a tantrum, and I followed Ashe out. So essentially, you didn't miss much and got all the benefits of a dramatic exit."

"Which was always my goal."

///

Perrie's hanging halfway out of the open carriage window, waving eagerly as they pull up the drive, and Niall hopes his smile is convincing. Luckily, it's easy to be ignored when their mother's already bursting into tears as Perrie steps out of the carriage, adjusting what he's sure is a brand-new bonnet with a deliberate flutter of her left hand to let her wedding ring catch the sunlight. "Oh, look at you!" their mother coos, pulling Perrie into a tight hug, "Simply glowing, you are! Never looked better, my dearest girl." Zayn's stepping out of the carriage behind her, pushing his dark hair back. His eyes meet Niall's and Niall starts to wonder if he's not smiling as much as baring his teeth.

"It's so strange being back!" Perrie says with a laugh, "I feel like everything's changed but you're all still the same."

"Funny how that works," Niall mutters. Sophia pinches his arm, her expression not cracking in the slightest.

At least, not until they go to head inside and Perrie stops her, "No, Sophia, _I_ go first now since _I'm_ married and _you_ aren’t." Perrie flutters her flashes, curving her hand around Zayn's extended arm. Sophia's saved from a response by their mother squealing again about Perrie being a _wife,_ ushering her in with demands to hear about the wedding, Julia trailing after them.

"Well," their father says, patting Sophia's cheek, "I think we can all agree that marriage has not immediately granted her common sense."

"Did you think it would?" Ashlyn asks.

"No, I dare say I didn't. But a father can hope," he kisses Ashlyn's head and then strolls inside, hands clasped behind his back.

"Maybe we should've stood with him when he said they'd never be welcome here. I’m already quite ready for them to leave," Niall's expecting the way Sophia slaps him, hissing about being rude when _"Perrie's a fool but she's still our_ sister, _Nialler!"_ but he still means it. The look Ashlyn gives him, slightly red-faced with her lip between her teeth, makes him think she agrees with him. "Well, might as well go grin and bear it. They're only staying for the night, after all. I just hope they don't make too much noise if they’re sharing a bed."

"You have _zero_ room to talk about making noise with someone else, Niall, not after Breslin. Don't even attempt it," Sophia's voice is steel laced with a hint of amusement.

"Suppose I don't," he replies, pinching her cheek and then offering both arms up to her and Ashlyn. After what Niall thinks is the most excruciatingly awkward teatime he's ever suffered through, during which Perrie gloats eagerly about her time in Hull, how she and Zayn fell madly in love—Zayn's mouth pinching in with Niall's positive is a hidden wince—and the fact that, with Zayn's newly purchased commission, they'll be heading off to Brighton next. He doesn’t mind that bit quite as much, since they'll be on the opposite end of the country and therefore, any interactions with Zayn would be kept at a minimum. Maybe they’ll only have to see him once or twice a year.

On their post-tea walk into Town so Perrie can show off her ring and new husband to everyone else in Congleton, she ends up slowing down to keep pace with Niall, "I think you must be _terribly_ jealous of me, brother."

"Why on earth would you think that?" Zayn's walking ahead of them, Julia babbling away at his side and his back stiffer than Niall's ever seen it. He supposes that this might be punishment enough for Zayn, ending up tied down to a foolish girl with a minimal dowry and pushed into the army (though Niall can't fathom how Zayn managed to afford a commission with how much debt he was in). He can—and does—hope that the marriage will work out of course, that Perrie will gain dignity with age and maybe whatever spark led them to run away together will build into actual love and affection. But for now, maybe he'll let himself wallow in this pettiness, this spite that's dug its teeth into his stomach and isn't ready to let go yet.

"You used to _fancy_ my Zayn, didn't you? I thought you were quite sweet on him before we went away, after all," Niall presses his lips together, biting down on his tongue until he tastes blood, "He told me that he prefers blondes though, so I suppose you never _really_ had a chance." There's nothing civil Niall wants to say, and he doesn't want to be mean _directly_ to Perrie, so he keeps his mouth shut. Perrie doesn't seem to notice (or chooses not to; it's always a toss-up with her). "When we were married, Mrs. Miller said that she'd _never_ seen a more beautiful bride than me. I only wish that more people had been there to see it. Zayn and I made _quite_ the pair, I think, in our new clothes. But the only people there were the Millers and then Mr. Styles and Mr. Tomlinson," her nose wrinkles, "and _neither_ of them made good guests on my happiest day."

Niall stops walking entirely, leaving Perrie to narrowly avoid tripping over the hem of her dress. "Ha—Mr. Styles was at your wedding?" His ears are ringing, heart ricocheting in his chest like it's trying to find a weak point to break through his ribs. He hadn't even known that Harry went to London.

"Yes, he visited us quite a lot before the wedding. We were staying with an old friend of Zayn’s. Mr. Styles helped arrange the church and every—" she stops, clasping both hands over her mouth, "Oh no! I wasn't supposed to tell you!"

"What?" Niall says, wishing he had something that could keep him propped up right now. He feels like he’s about to pass out.

There's a glint in Perrie's eyes that doesn't match her contrite expression, "They made me _promise_ not to say anything to you. But they didn't tell me _why_ so perhaps it doesn't matter that I did. That day was just so _happy_ that I forgot about that little bit." Niall doubts that. He's positive that she remembered it perfectly and harbored it like a little gossip seed waiting for the chance to be planted in his head.

"Who made you promise?" he asks as evenly as he can.

"Mr. Tomlinson. I didn't speak to Mr. Styles much—not that I wanted to, mind you, I think he's _terribly_ rude—but Mr. Tomlinson told me specifically to keep it from you. But oh well," she shrugs, sends him a sunny, gleeful smile, and skips forward to not-so-gently nudge Julia out of the way so she can walk with Zayn instead. Sophia, walking with Ashlyn a little behind them, turns to give Niall a questioning look. He shakes his head, stuffing his hands in his pockets to stop himself from chewing his nails to death. That doesn't make any _sense._ Why would Harry go to Zayn and Perrie's wedding, let alone help in any way? And why would Louis tell Perrie to keep it all a secret?

As soon as they get back, he retreats to his room and pens a sloppy, rushed letter to Laura and Willie asking them to confirm what Perrie said. He hands it off to a maid heading into town, watching as she's assisted into their cart by Cook, and hopes that he'll get a quick response. If _Harry_ won't send him letters, maybe at least he can get an answer to this quickly.

"Niall?" he jumps, looking over his shoulder to see Zayn hovering in the doorway, "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"S'pose it has," Niall replies, trying to figure out just much of Zayn's hesitance is real and what's a show put on to try and manipulate the conversation, "But you _did_ go off to Hull."

"You're right," Zayn pushes his hair out of his face, "Did you stay in Congleton the whole time?" He asks it like he already knows that Niall didn't, so Niall decides that there's no reason to lie.

"No," he says, "I spent some time in Cranage with our family friends, the Millers. Ended up spending a night at Capesthorne Hall as well, which I found quite agreeable."

Yes, there's that flicker in Zayn's dark eyes, something unknowable but certainly not pleasant. Niall holds his gaze, forcing Zayn to be the one to look away first. "I—Capesthorne is a lovely home. I'm sure you enjoyed it quite a bit," he finally says.

"I had the time of my life there, actually. Had dinner with the family and everything," laughed and drank and told stories and allowed himself to fall into the realization that he was—no, he _is_ hopelessly in love. Zayn's mouth twists, something like a grimace, and Niall decides that he has the right, really, to dig that knife in a _little_ more. "Come now," he lets himself grin, "No need to look so concerned. The past is the past, is it not? And we're brothers now."

"True," Zayn says with a slight nod, his sharp jaw still clenched, "I am… _grateful_ to be part of your family now."

"Glad to hear it. You'll have your hands full with Perrie, but I'm sure you'll manage." Niall claps him on the shoulder harder than he strictly needs to, and then wanders off to the kitchen in the hope of stealing a spare roll while Cook's out.

///

"Sir?" the voice is like a fly buzzing in his ear. Niall grunts, rolling over and smushing his face into his lumpy pillow. He thought he'd made a strict deal with the spiders living in his bedroom: he lets them live, they kill the more annoying pests. Clearly, they've been backing down on their end of the deal. "Sir!" the noise comes again, paired with a tentative nudge on his shoulder. Groaning, Niall lifts his head up and opens his eyes just enough to see who touched him.

"Betty?" he asks, squinting through the darkness and the faint light from the lantern in their maid's hand, "Is something wrong?"

"There's, um, there's someone downstairs. A visitor for you," she squeaks.

"For me?" Betty nods, casting a nervous glance towards the doorway, "Did they say who they were?"

She shakes her head, frizzy red hair bouncing, "N-no, but it's a man and he seems quite important and very annoyed." Niall frowns, pulling himself upright and running his hand through his hair. He can feel it sticking up wildly, the evidence of him getting a good night's sleep in what feels like the first time in ages. He would hope that it’s Harry, but he knows that Harry would never show up to his family’s house in the dead of night. And now Niall's awake and rather annoyed himself, which doesn't bode well for whatever visitor is waiting for him downstairs. Betty darts from the room, leaving the lantern behind for him as Niall tugs on his dressing gown. If he gets fully dressed, he knows it'll be harder to get back to sleep once whatever this is has been sorted out.

He pads downstairs, using the old railings and walls to steady his still drowsy legs, and runs into Sophia and Ashlyn outside their bedroom on the second-floor landing, "What're you two doing up?" They’re both in their nightgowns, Ashlyn still rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"We heard the knocking downstairs and then someone asking for you," Ashlyn says through a yawn, tugging on the end of her braid, “ _Demanding_ to speak with you, actually. Have you made someone mad, Nialler?"

“Haven’t the slightest clue, petal.”

"Well, either way we figured you might need to have the cavalry with you just in case," Sophia adds with a soft smile. Niall hugs them both, planting matching kisses on their temples, before continuing down to the first floor. The door to the parlor is open, the room dimly lit by a candelabra on the coffee table. Their mother and father are also awake—well, Maura is awake and pacing while Bobby sits in an armchair by the fire, head lolling back dangerously.

"Ah!" a voice cracks through the room, "Finally, Mr. Horan, you _deign_ to receive me." Niall nearly drops the lantern, narrowly tightening his fingers on the brass handle before it can slip from his grasp entirely.

"Lord Cowell. This is a surprise," though he supposes it does make sense, what with Betty's description of his visitor as both important and annoyed.

Lord Cowell barks out a bitter laugh, "Don't play the fool with me, boy. You had to have known I would come."

“Actually, my lord, I confess that I was not expecting you and you’ve got me quite at a disadvantage. Is something the matter?"

Lord Cowell glares at the rest of his family, "I will speak to your son alone. Leave us."

"My lord, I ask that you refrain from ordering my family about so rudely," Niall ignores the way their mother gasps but doesn't miss the slight smile on Bobby’s face, "If it's privacy you desire, that can be arranged without needing to make commands." He looks back to his family, “If you wouldn’t mind letting Lord Cowell and me have a moment?” Honestly, he doesn’t think he’s ever made such a formal request to anyone in this household, but he wants to prove a point. He refuses to let Lord Cowell come in here and start acting like he owns the place.

"Niall," Sophia starts, casting a nervous glance at Lord Cowell, “Are you sure you don’t want someone in here with you?”

"I'll be fine, Soph, don't worry about me," her eyes search his for a moment before she nods, ushering Ashlyn and their parents out of the parlor. Though the door shuts behind them with a hesitant click, Niall knows his family too well and has no doubt that they've all got their ears pressed against the door.

"I demand answers, Mr. Horan, and I have come all the way from Lyme Park to get them. I will not accept lies or diversions," Lord Cowell does rather look like he's traveled all the way from Lyme Park in one sitting. His hair is a little too rumpled and there's a wrinkle on his traveling coat that Niall can see even in the poor lighting. He thinks that Greg would be going into conniptions if he were here, seeing his _glorious Lord Cowell_ in such a state.

"Then I'll do my best to satisfy you. Though again, I don't know why you're here."

Lord Cowell sniffs, "I heard a most _distressing_ rumor at dinner the other night. Of course, I put no countenance in it at first, but then it was repeated to me later and I knew that I needed to hear it put to rest by the subject himself." Niall frowns, bringing his hand halfway up to his mouth to bite his nails before realizing that it wouldn't be polite (though Niall thinks that all normal rules of society go out the window when it comes to uninvited house guests in the middle of the night). Lord Cowell waits, as if Niall will admit to whatever nonsense is going on, and only continues when Niall remains silent, "I was told that you had entered into an engagement with my nephew. As this is impossible, I am here to get confirmation that you are not."

"Who told you that Ha—Mr. Styles and I were engaged?" he keeps his voice level. From the other side of the door, there's a muffled squeak followed by a thump, likely Sophia silencing their mother.

"An acquaintance who I normally trust," Lord Cowell says, glaring at the closed door, "Now, boy, answer me. Is it true?"

"No, it’s not," as much as Niall wishes otherwise. He's growing sick of getting antsy over the mail each day for a letter from Harry that isn't arriving.

Lord Cowell's beady eyes narrow but Niall doesn't look away, doesn't even let himself blink. No matter how much Lord Cowell blusters and demands, Niall’s not afraid of him. "You promise this?" Niall nods, wondering if this is really all the older man wanted to know. It seems like such a small question to net _this_ sort of situation. Lord Cowell walks the length of the room, his boots clicking on the floor in a mechanical rhythm, "As I suspected. I _knew_ that it couldn't be true. You are far below my nephew, after all, and he is promised to another."

That _does_ catch Niall off guard, "I was unaware that _he_ was engaged already." Harry had never mentioned it, nor had Gemma or Anne, which feels like _quite_ the oversight if it’s true.

Lord Cowell wavers for a moment, "It is an…unofficial engagement. But he has been promised to my daughter Caroline since they were children." That makes Niall feel _slightly_ better, he supposes. "As I mentioned, any marriage between you and my nephew would be impossible. However, I demand that you promise me here and now that you will _reject_ any proposal, were he to make one, and that you will never propose yourself."

"There’s no way I’d ever promise that," Niall says without a hint of hesitation, “on either count.”

"I shall not ask you again."

"I’d recommend that you don't, as you'd only be wasting your own breath. My answer will not change. Honestly, if the thought of a match between your nephew and me is as impossible as you say, then there is no need for me to promise you anything, is there?" it's hard, trying to stay civil when he wants to box Lord Cowell's ears in and also start running for Holmes Chapel. The only people that would’ve known about him and Harry would be Harry’s family and the servants at Capesthorne—that is, unless Harry told other people in London. But Niall can’t see Harry talking about Niall to anyone he didn’t trust and he _also_ finds it hard to believe that Harry would be going around saying that they’re engaged when they’re not. At least, _Niall_ thinks that they’re not, so he’d quite like to know how they got engaged without him knowing it. He was rather looking forward to the real proposal—or more specifically, the immediate celebrations that would follow. He already misses that gigantic bed in Harry's bedroom, but he misses Harry _so_ much more.

Lord Cowell draws himself up as if he could make himself taller than Niall when they’re nearly the same height, his nostrils flaring like an enraged dragon, "You are an _insolent_ boy! I _demand_ your promise here and now that you will refuse him. That you will stay _away_ from him."

"Then I must disappoint you, my lord. I'll never make that promise," Niall steps forward, leaving the lantern on the edge of a side table, "If that is all you came for, I will be happy to show you out so you can be on your way back home."

"I am not leaving until I have been satisfied that you understand your place, your _inferiority_ when it comes to my nephew," Lord Cowell's hands tighten on the back of an arm chair, as if he's preparing to hold on tight to fend off the (not entirely unlikely) possibility that Niall will physically drag him out of the house, "You are an absolute _fool_ if you could ever believe that a man of my nephew's status would ever choose an _Irishman_ of little money or power. While I do not think _highly_ of you, Mr. Horan, I do not think you a fool and therefore I require your _word."_

"And you _will not have it,_ " Niall repeats through his teeth, emphasizing every word as clearly as possible, "You have come to my home in the middle of the night, awoken my family and all our servants, and proceeded to belittle me in a multitude of ways over something that I have denied and that you _yourself_ claim is impossible. Even if I _could_ give you my word, I wouldn’t want to do it. That’s my final word on the matter. If you have further questions on what your nephew will or won't do, I suggest you take it up with _him_ and leave my family and me in peace."

There's another thump outside the door, followed by a plaintive whine that sounds like Julia. Julia normally sleeps like the dead and Niall wonders if this discussion's been louder than he thinks. "You are a proud and impertinent boy with airs _far_ above your station. If my nephew _does_ do the unthinkable, it would be the ruin of his good reputation and name. He would be the laughingstock of his social circle for marrying someone so far below it. And you will _never_ be invited back to Lyme Park. I will refuse you both," even in the dim lighting, Lord Cowell's face is impressively red.

Niall can't help but laugh even if he's sure the sound is giving his mother a heart attack on the other side of the closed door, "If any of that was meant to dissuade me, I hate to tell you that it failed. If I married your nephew, his goodwill and support would be the only thing that mattered to me. And while I found Lyme Park quite agreeable, to your credit, my visit to Capesthorne was even more appealing and I would be quite satisfied to never leave that house."

"You speak as if an engagement _has_ taken place!"

"But I have told you—truthfully—that it _hasn't_. As _you_ seem intent on warning me against something that you insist is impossible, what's the harm in me discussing the impossible as well?" he almost wishes that Harry were here to see this right now. Niall thinks he'd find it amusing at least (and possibly exasperating, but that's likely nothing new).

Lord Cowell draws himself up, shoulders set in a firm line and mouth pinched tight, like when Holly dared Niall to lick a salt block as a child and he couldn't taste anything else for the rest of the day. "Mark my words, boy, I will not _let_ this happen!" he finally hisses, waggling his finger at Niall before stomping towards the door. The rest of Niall's family scuttles back—Maura looking ashamed and his sisters wearing matching expressions of outrage—but Lord Cowell says nothing more as he storms out. The door slams behind him, rattling the very foundations of the house.

Niall sinks into the armchair, rubbing his face with his hand, abruptly more exhausted than he had been when he fell asleep tonight. “Well, that happened,” he mumbles into his palm.

"Nialler, what on _earth_ was that about?" Sophia asks, rushing to his side and pressing the back of her hand to his cheek.

"You heard what it was about," he replies, tilting his head into her touch.

"Yes but—why would _he_ think you and Mr. Styles are engaged?"

"I have absolutely no idea, Soph," he yawns, "Told you, the last time I saw Harry, nothing was set in stone. There was no official proposal or anything."

"But—but was there something _unofficial?"_ Ashlyn offers, bouncing a little on her feet.

"Well, we—er," Niall abruptly remembers that their mother and father are in the room too, looking intrigued and amused respectively, "There were _discussions_." Sophia flattens her lips, a horrible attempt at hiding her smile since she knows full well what _actually_ happened. But Niall just refuses to admit in front of his parents that he and Harry skipped straight to the wedding night, to Niall fucking Harry into that big, decadent mattress, without bothering to get all the other bits out of the way first.

If Maura sees through his flimsy attempt at evasion too, she doesn't seem to be remotely interested in calling him out on it. Instead, she clasps her hands to her chest and sighs, "Oh how _lovely!_ To have _two_ children married off by the end of the year!"

"Mama, I just said that nothing is actually official," Niall repeats.

"But it _will_ be, my dear, I'm sure of it," she trots forward and pats his cheek, "You were absolutely out of line, speaking to a lord like that, but I will forgive it as soon as there's a ring on your finger." Niall groans.

///

Harry hadn’t planned on going to Capesthorne before Congleton. There’s a ring burning a hole in his pocket, desperate to be on Niall’s finger where it belongs, and he’s gotten every other delay out of the way. He knows that Liam left London for Congleton a week ago with the plan of staying at Gawsworth for long enough to propose to Sophia and, if accepted, get to work immediately on wedding planning. Harry understands the urgency, feels it crawling under his skin for every second he’s delayed from seeing Niall. He hopes that he can stay with Liam at Gawsworth as well when he finally manages to slip away to Congleton. He doesn’t have quite the same _concerns_ that he had about Niall’s family before now, but he also doesn’t really want to _stay_ at Little Moreton for an extended period.

It’s not like Gawsworth would be much better in terms of courtesy, but Harry would feel marginally better about taking Niall to bed in a bigger house with more distance between the rooms to muffle their sounds.

But he’d gotten a letter from his mother before leaving London asking him to stop by home first, so that’s where he’d ended up. He’s positive that Anne was just trying to make sure he was reminded of his promise not to elope with Niall, since she’s spent most of the last few days discussing wedding plans that will all require at least a month or two of time to prepare. All he’s been able to do is try and condense the timeline between now and an altar as much as possible.

“Are you planning on going to Congleton soon?” Gemma asks him as she perches on the other end of the sofa with a plate of shortbread cookies in one hand. Harry snatches one—Cook makes the _best_ shortbread—and waits until he’s finished it before nodding.

“Mum wants me here for some visit from a cousin or something tomorrow but then I’m heading straight there.”

“She probably just wants to officially commence with gloating about you getting married to all our extended family.”

“Probably,” Harry agrees, taking another cookie, “and I suppose I can’t begrudge her for that either.”

“With how long it took you to find someone, you’d have no ground to stand on,” Gemma muses, cracking her cookie in half.

“I was waiting for Niall. I just didn’t know it yet,” at least Gemma hasn’t been teasing him as much as Louis when he goes on these romantic streaks.

She smiles back at him, nose scrunching up, “It’s nice to see you this happy. And I’m excited to have a brother-in-law too, especially one as charming as Niall. I presume he’s going to live here with us, yes?”

“I certainly hope so,” he’s hoping that he won’t have to belabor that point. If Niall insisted, Harry knows that he’d move wherever Niall wanted, but it would be so nice to have him here at Capesthorne. Niall _belongs_ here with him, has long before he emerged from behind the branches of that weeping willow and made Harry whole again.

“Good,” Gemma nibbles on her cookie, “I can’t wait to get to know him better. He had to leave so soon last time and you had kept him to yourself all morning too.”

“I’m not sorry about that at all. If his stomach hadn’t growled, I would’ve kept him exactly where he was.”

She sticks her tongue out at him, holding the plate of cookies out of his reach. It’s a dangerous game, trying to snatch the plate from her without knocking it out of her hand and incurring the wrath of someone—housekeeper or mother—at the mess of crumbs on the expensive rug. The only reason Harry gives up is that someone knocks on the door to the drawing room, two quick raps on the doorframe. “Excuse me, sir, miss,” the footman bows as Harry and Gemma both turn to look at him, “You have a visitor waiting downstairs.”

“A visitor?” Gemma asks, delicately brushing her fingers off over the plate.

“Lord Cowell. Someone else has gone to fetch Mrs. Styles,” Harry can feel Gemma looking at him, waiting to follow his lead. The last person he wants to entertain right now is his uncle, but he has no real reason to refuse the visit.

“Show him into the parlor and we’ll be there momentarily,” the footman bows again, disappearing through the door.

Harry stands, holding his hand out to help Gemma to her feet, “What do you think he’s doing here?” The smile’s faded from her face, replaced by a twist in her lips Harry doesn’t like. She probably likes Simon even less than Harry, having been the recipient of more than enough “life advice” over the years.

Harry shrugs, offering her his arm, “I have no clue to be honest, but I doubt it’s for anything good. He’s never been the type to make casual visits without warning.”

They head downstairs to the parlor to find their mother sitting on the chaise lounge while Simon paces the room. “Ah, there you are,” Anne says, “Your uncle has been kind enough to call on us.” Judging by the confused frown on his mother’s features, Harry doubts that _kind_ is the word she’d wanted to use.

Harry tilts his head in his uncle’s direction and Gemma curtsies, stumbling a little. The first bad sign is the fact that Simon doesn’t comment on her misstep. Instead, his eyes focus in on Harry, “I have heard the most _distressing_ rumor, nephew, and my first attempt at getting it dismissed did not go as smoothly as I anticipated. Therefore, I am hoping that _you_ can put the matter to rest for me.”

Gemma, perhaps seeing that Harry’s the target of whatever ire’s propelling Simon, darts across the room to sit by Anne, head down like she’s avoiding gunfire. Harry swallows, “I can certainly try. What was the—”

“Good. I knew you would more amenable than that Horan boy,” Simon’s voice drips with disdain.

“You went to speak with Mr. Horan?”

His uncle huffs, “Of course. At first, I had no reason to believe that _you_ had any part in the rumor, impossible as it was. I presumed that _he_ was the source due to how ludicrous and self-serving it was. Though clearly, that’s exactly the type of man he is and—”

Anne clears her throat, “What’s the rumor in question?”

Simon sniffs, “The _preposterous_ idea that he and my nephew are engaged.” Harry would respond but finds that his tongue is unwilling to form words. His mother and sister are openly staring at him now, _waiting_ for him to say something, but he’s got too much to think through if he wants to respond politely. He’s not sure how that news got out—perhaps an eavesdropping servant when he and Louis were at Liam’s house—and he’s also not sure whether he finds the word _preposterous_ or the fact that Simon apparently went straight to Niall more infuriating.

His extended silence seems to satisfy his uncle, as Simon humphs and brushes at his lapel, “I knew it had to be impossible. The boy denied it but I could tell that he was still aiming above his station with how disrespectfully he spoke to me. I don’t remember the last time I was treated so rudely by someone of _that_ ranking, though I suppose given his _blood_ , I should’ve expected no less.”

“He _denied_ it?” Harry says, the shock pushing past everything else (which is surprising, since Harry’s on the verge of snapping). He knows that he didn’t _officially_ propose to Niall again, but with all the joking about the wedding night and the rest of their lives, Harry had thought it was understood.

He _really_ needs to stop assuming things about his conversations with Niall.

“He did,” Simon pauses, eyes narrowing suspiciously, “A denial which I dearly hope you are about to echo, nephew.”

“I fail to see what business it is of yours either way, Simon,” Anne cuts in, “My son is free to marry as he wishes.” Simon opens his mouth, taking a breath that makes his chest puff out, but Anne’s faster, “And I _pray_ you’re not about to mention that arrangement you had with my late husband regarding your daughter.”

“He was promised—”

“They were _children,_ there was never a _formal_ betrothal, and there’s been no progress since then. _Surely_ you aren’t still holding onto that,” Anne finishes, hands clasped in her lap, a delicate companion to the steel in her spine.

Simon, probably unwilling to deal directly with Harry’s mother more, turns to Harry, “Do you have _nothing_ to say about this?”

After giving himself a moment to mull over the words, Harry says, “I do find this rumor quite concerning because—”

“Thank God—”

“ _Because,”_ Harry continues loudly, “if Mr. Horan doesn’t think we’re engaged, there was clearly a miscommunication on my part that I need to clarify with him as soon as possible. It was my understanding that we are.”

Silence settles over the room, the kind of quiet that vibrates with incoming words. Simon’s turning puce, lips pressed together so tightly that they’ve disappeared. When he finally speaks, his voice is thin and venomous, “You mean to tell me that you _honestly_ intend on marrying that boy?”

Harry nods, “I don’t _intend_ anything. I’m _going_ to marry that _man_.”

“Have you lost your _senses?_ He is _nothing,_ so far beneath you that courting him alone would make you the laughingstock of Society. The moment you stepped into any event in Town, he would ruin you and your reputation. He is disrespectful and uncultured to the _core_. Not only that, but he’s also _Irish._ To lower yourself even more by actually _marrying_ the man—it’s _unthinkable,_ nephew,” the shake in Simon’s voice could be disbelief or anger. Harry doesn’t care either way, too busy debating between rebutting everything his uncle just said or kicking the man out of the house directly.

But his mother gets his attention by clearing her throat, “Gemma, Harry, would you leave us for a moment? I’d like to have some words with your uncle in private.”

“Mum,” Harry starts.

She motions to the parlor door, “If you two wouldn’t mind. This shouldn’t take long at all.” Gemma scurries to Harry’s side and ends up dragging him out of the room when his legs lock up at the thought of leaving his (very capable, he knows) mother alone with his uncle. The door shuts and there’s the briefest pause, barely long enough for Harry to take a breath, before his mother’s voice _erupts,_ “How _dare_ you!”

What follows is a tirade unlike any other Harry’s heard from his mother. She berates Simon so thoroughly that Harry almost feels sorry for the man. If his every attempt at rebuttal didn’t involve some sort of insult to Niall, Harry might step in. As it is, he’s rather enjoying listening to his mother defend Niall’s worthiness and put Simon in his place. “With how upset it makes our _dear uncle,_ I think you should marry Niall even _more_ now,” Gemma whispers, still gawking at the door.

“I would marry him right now if he were here,” Harry replies, awestruck listening to his mother argue in defense of their good name ( _“If you believe for a_ moment _that my late husband would’ve had any issues about his son marrying a perfectly suitable gentleman, you’ve forgotten what kind of man he was!”)_.

“Why do you think he doesn’t believe you’re engaged?” Harry leans against the wall, frowning at his feet.

“I’m not sure. We danced around the actual _question,_ sure, and I didn’t get to directly ask him before he left but I thought we discussed things enough that it was an unspoken agreement,” he thinks of that ring upstairs in his bedroom, waiting impatiently to be on Niall’s finger, “I might have to disappoint Mum tomorrow and head to Congleton early. I’m not particularly happy about the fact that my fiancé doesn’t think he’s my fiancé.”

“Understandably,” Gemma says with a snicker, “Puts a bit of a damper on the whole engaged bit. Imagine if you’d planned on eloping and showed up to his house only for him to not be ready.” Harry can picture that, but he also thinks Niall wouldn’t complain.

“Niall would probably prefer to elope, but I promised Mum that we wouldn’t and considering this,” he gestures behind him, “I have no interest in breaking that promise.”

“Smart move if you want to arrive at the altar in one piece—or alive at all, actually,” Harry chuckles, letting Gemma lean against his shoulder.

The parlor door opens, Simon emerging red-faced and panting. He stares at Harry, his nostrils flared, and says, “As your _mother_ has pointed out, I have no _say_ in your choice of spouse. But if you marry _that man_ , you will _never_ be welcomed at Lyme Park again.”

“That’s a sacrifice I am willing to make,” Harry replies, keeping every word crisp, “And I see no need for you to return to Capesthorne either, in that case.”

“Your father—”

“If you invoke my late husband’s name one more time, sir, I will not apologize for the consequences,” Anne states, arms crossed over her chest, “I assume you can show yourself out.” Simon turns on his heel, marching down the hall. Moments later, the sound of the front door slamming shut echoes through the halls.

“Well,” Gemma starts, “That was certainly quite a visit.”

Their mother hums, turning her eyes on Harry. He stares back, nerves rising in his stomach at the thought that she’s found some reason to be angry at him considering her tight expression. But then she smiles, the same smile he’s known all his life, and tells him, “Harry, I only want you to be happy and marrying a good man for love is more than enough to satisfy me. But if we’re being entirely honest now, there’s nothing I want more than for you to marry Niall _just_ to spite that miserable, nosy man.”

“I suppose I can include that on my long list of reasons I’m marrying Niall,” he tells her, stepping forward to kiss her forehead, “But I hope you don’t mind if I leave early tomorrow to go get him. It appears that I need to officially propose to my fiancé.”


	7. Your hand forever's all I want, don't take the money (I'm in love and you've got me, runaway)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Niall and Harry get their happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from Bleachers' Don't Take The Money

"Come on, petal, you can take your bonnet off. Nobody's out here to see you and I'm getting tired of watching you fiddle with that ribbon," Niall says. He and Ashlyn brought their chess board outside today, eager to escape into the fresh air and out of range of their mother's giddy excitement. Even though Harry has yet to visit or write or _anything,_ Maura has done nothing other than discuss Niall's impending nuptials like they're happening tomorrow.

He'd gotten a letter back from Laura, who'd said she was surprised that Niall hadn't known about Harry being in London. He's read it repeatedly in lieu of anything from Harry himself, trying to figure out what it could mean that Harry met the Millers in London and told them to let him take care of everything, refusing to take no for an answer. Harry went and procured the special license for Zayn and Perrie, arranged and paid for Zayn's commission, and even handed over money for Perrie's wedding dress. Niall has _hopes_ for what it could mean, great big piles of them, but without word coming from Harry himself, all they are is hopes.

"The ribbon is obnoxious," Ashlyn says slowly, "but Mama doesn't want me to get any more freckles and—"

"Ashe, I can tell you that nobody with common sense and any amount of affection for you will be deterred by you having a few freckles. Sometimes, Mama isn't right about that sort of thing," he takes her pawn and then leans back, pressing his hands against the stone of the bench they're sitting on. Ashlyn frowns down at the board and Niall uses her focus as a distraction, giving him a chance to reach over and snatch the straw bonnet off her head. Her pale braid tumbles out of her bun like a cut rope, knocking over one of her captured pieces on the bench.

"Nialler!" she hisses, trying to grab her bonnet back.

"You can have it back when the game's done, alright? Little sunlight's not going to hurt you, sis, I promise."

"If Mama yells at me—"

"Then you can blame it entirely on me and that will be the end of it. Right now, I'm quite certain that I could announce my intention to start breeding raccoons in my bedroom at this point and she wouldn't even blink," he's sure that his mother is already planning on other uses for his bedroom anyway, fully expecting that Niall will be moving to Capesthorne at the first opportunity. She's not wrong, not when the promise of living with Harry (and Harry's bed) is so alluring, but he's not even _engaged_ yet let alone married.

Ashlyn makes a rude gesture that only makes Niall grin (since he's the one who taught it to her ages ago) before making her next move. "W-would you really be leaving? If you marry Mr. Styles, that is," Niall doesn't like the hesitance in her voice, the mouse-like squeak he knows means she's nervous.

"Yes, that would probably be my plan. Capesthorne is a gorgeous place. Why?" he moves his knight forward, protecting his queen from Ashlyn's rook.

"It—I don't know what I'll do without you here, I suppose," she tugs her lip through her teeth, but anything else she was planning to say is cut off by the sound of hooves racing up the drive. Knowing it will only make her more anxious, Niall hands over the bonnet and watches Ashlyn struggle to get it back on. She's still tucking her braid into her bonnet when the horse and its rider come into view around the bend.

Niall doesn’t even get a chance to figure out who it is. "Niall! How lovely to see you again!" Liam Payne's voice rings out over the quiet front yard, causing two sparrows to flutter out of the apple tree they'd been perched in.

"Liam!" Niall gets to his feet as Liam hops off his horse, a mahogany stallion that seems impossibly tall, "This is unexpected. What brings you to Little Moreton? I wasn’t aware that you were back in town."

“Arrived late last night, actually. It’s good to be back here; I hadn’t known how much I missed the place until I was looking at Gawsworth again. And as for my business here,” Liam rocks on his heels, suddenly bashful, "is—ah, is your sister home?" Niall barely manages to stop himself from smirking. He cocks his head instead, playing the fool.

"You're going to have to be a bit more specific. One sister's right here," Niall motions to Ashlyn, who tilts her head forward.

"Good morning to you, Miss Horan!" Ashlyn's no more prepared for Liam's blinding grin than Sophia ever was.

Her cheeks turn pink as she squeaks out, "Good morning to you too, Mr. Payne."

Liam glances back at Niall, "I was, ah, I was referring to Miss _Sophia_ Horan."

Niall nods as if that thought hadn't already occurred to him, "Of course, of course. Yes, Soph's home. Did you have business with her?"

Liam's grin returns, a boyish complement to his slight flush, "I certainly hope I do. And is your father home as well? Perhaps I should speak with him first."

"He is. Reckon he's in his study. Let me show you inside—"

Liam shakes his head. His hair's grown since he left Congleton, curling just a little at the ends, and the curls bounce as his head moves, "No need, I don't want to interrupt your game. Chess is ever so stressful, I find. I think I can find the way."

"Um, I don't think you'll need to. Sophia can show you," Ashlyn interjects, pointing towards the house. Sophia's coming around the corner from the garden, a half-full flower basket hooked over one arm. Her hair's coming loose from its bun, little wavy strands curling around her face, and she looks so utterly _domestic_ that Niall almost thinks this was planned, orchestrated by some higher power. Maybe the same one that led him to stumble on Harry by the lake. Liam nearly swoons, like a matron who's just seen a rat under the dining table or a man standing after one too many pints.

"Soph!" Niall calls, cupping his hands around his mouth, "You've got a visitor!" Sophia turns to look at him and almost drops the basket. She steadies herself on the black and white wall of the house with her other hand and Niall can practically hear the panic in her head, the way she's taking note of every way she's not ready to properly receive Liam. Niall leans in, "Strictly speaking, Liam, I don't think my family will stand too strongly on the proper order of things, if you want to talk to Sophia before my father. Also means you can have business concluded before my mother gets involved."

Liam's eyes are far too grateful, and Niall pats him on the back before motioning him off towards Sophia, now frantically fixing her hair in the reflection of the parlor window. Niall would _very much_ like to keep watching, but he almost wants to give Liam and Sophia as much privacy for this as he can. He settles on the bench again, his back to Sophia and Liam, and tries to ignore their quiet conversation. "Don't worry," Ashlyn whispers as she moves her rook back, "I'll let you know what happens."

"That's my girl," Niall replies with a wink. Niall's debating whether to take Ashlyn's bishop or go for the dangerous move and check her king with his queen when Sophia's euphoric scream _of "Yes!"_ fills the air.

He glances at Ashlyn, who smiles even as she's whispering, "In my defense, he didn't get down on one knee! I wasn't sure!"

"Didn't get down on one knee, hmm? Might have to go correct that, make him do it proper."

"Don't! They—oh, Nialler, they look so _happy!"_ it's enough to make Niall look over his shoulder again. Liam's got Sophia up off the ground, her legs swinging as he spins her in giddy, uneven circles. When he puts her back on solid ground, he plants a kiss on her lips that leaves even Niall's knees a little weak just watching. Both because it looks just that passionate and because it's bringing back memories of Harry kissing him like that.

"Go on, you two, go find Papa already!" Niall calls when both Liam and Sophia turn to look at him, "We'll celebrate afterwards." Mere moments after the pair enter the house, the slightly muffled sound of their mother's scream makes its way out to them. "And Mama crosses another one off the list," he reaches out, taking Ashlyn's bishop. Ashlyn doesn't make another move, though her head is tilted towards the board. "Ashe? What's wrong?"

Her bony shoulders shiver, "Sophia's going to leave and then you're going to leave and—I don't know what I'll do!"

"Ashe—"

"When you're both gone, it will only be me and Julia left and—and Julia already does everything that Mama wants so she'll get so much worse with me and—and—" Niall gets up, moving to sit down behind Ashlyn on the edge of the bench.

"'m not going anywhere quite yet, love," he says as he pulls her against his chest. He remembers her talking about this fear last year, the night that he met Harry. But he hadn't thought that it would actually come to pass so soon.

"But you _will!_ " she cries into his shoulder, "You will and then I'll be all alone here. Mama will be insufferable, and Papa won't do anything about it, and I will be so _miserable._ I know that it's selfish of me, I promise I do, because I'll be _so_ happy for you and Sophia but—"

Niall shushes her, pushing her bonnet back just so he can rest his chin on her head without feeling the scratchy straw, "Breathe for me, petal." It takes a moment, but he gives her time to let her sobs dwindle into soft little sniffles. "If I ask you something, will you tell me the truth? And I promise I won't tell anyone your answer," she nods, "Do you think you want to get married at all?"

Eventually, Ashlyn shakes her head, "N-no. I mean, I suppose I wouldn't mind it if I met someone that I fell in love with like you or Sophia did but—but I don't feel the need to go _find_ someone. I just want to be left alone to make music and read and get freckles in the stupid sun if I want to. Not that any of that would ever matter to Mama."

"Well, I'm not Mama and it matters quite a bit to me," he nudges her back enough to wipe the tears off her face, "Maybe you could come to Capesthorne with me, hmm? You'd like Harry's sister, I think. She's a little older than you, but she's quite kind and she loves music too."

"I—I wouldn't want to intrude," Ashlyn starts, her hesitance contradicting the immediate glimmer of hope in her blue eyes.

"Wouldn't be intruding, I promise. I mean, everything's still quite unfinished with regards to Harry and me obviously, but that clears up the way I hope it does, then I can't see anyone turning you down. Even Mama couldn't."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive, petal. I'd just frame it as you getting more society training or some nonsense like that from Harry's mother and sister. But they'd both understand what you’re really looking for. They're quite a bit more relaxed about things than their money would let on."

"How do you know that?" she asks, rubbing her reddened nose.

Niall shrugs, "They seemed to accept me just fine and it's—well, it's not like Harry and I were entirely _proper_ when I was there, and they didn't seem to care much about that when we finally made it down to breakfast looking like the messes we were."

" _Wait,"_ she drags the word out through a hiccup.

"Like I said, there were _discussions_ between Harry and me that were _unofficial,"_ Ashlyn's giggle starts soft, smothered by her biting down on her lip, but soon it's light and free and Niall knows that he's done what he had to do. Even if he's still not half as certain about his future with Harry as he's making it sound, he just wants to see his little sister smiling again.

"If I do get to come to Capesthorne," she says once she's gotten her laughter under control, "Promise me that you won't put me in a room next to you two."

He taps her nose, "Deal. Honestly, if I get to go to Capesthorne, might have to convince Harry to add on an entire wing for him and me just to spare everyone else." Ashlyn's still giggling when their mother sticks her head out of the window to the study, commanding them both to get in and celebrate the good news.

///

His little reading spot is going to get uncomfortable rather soon, Niall knows, but he's also in no rush to climb down from this tree and find something else to do. With his back against the bark and one leg hanging down off the thick branch he’s perched on, he's at least mentally comfortable. He turns the next page in his book, trying to rest the spine against his thigh without letting the breeze flap the book closed.

He doesn’t think of himself as a selfish man, not really, but he can't deny the fact that his pride is a little _injured_ right now. Since he last saw Harry, one sister's been married off (though the circumstances were far from ideal) and another is engaged. But _he_ should've been first. He still hasn't even gotten a single letter from Harry either, which is only fueling his worry that maybe Harry's uncle got to him first, started spouting off about all Niall's inadequacies and somehow talked Harry out of loving him. Niall's not quite sure what he'd do in that case. That life of living alone that he'd prepared for did not factor in the concept that he'd fall in love anyway.

He groans, tilting his head back against the tree trunk, and just _listens._ To the sound of leaves rustling in the morning breeze, birds chirping in flight overhead, the distant ruckus of the chickens in their hen house.

And footsteps too, though Niall doesn't immediately pay attention to them. It's probably just a servant, since his sisters went into the village with their mother to get started on having new dresses made for Sophia's now-imminent engagement ball. He would’ve gone with them if only to bask for a little longer in Sophia’s happiness, but there’s no way he was going to spend a couple hours in Watson’s listening to them all debate fabric.

The footsteps near and then stop. "There you are," it's a bloody miracle that Niall doesn't fall out of the tree entirely. He flails, narrowly managing to keep his balance, and looks down to see Harry peering up at him, hands behind his back, "Your housekeeper said you were somewhere out back."

"Harry? What are you doing here?" Niall rasps, trying to subtly pinch his thigh just _in case_ this is all a morning dream brought on by a tree nap.

Harry smiles, "Here to talk to you, of course. Would you mind coming down from there? I'd join you but, ah, I'm not the best at climbing trees." Niall tucks his book into his satchel, now emptied of the apple and cheese he'd nicked from the kitchen before coming out here, and then makes his way down to the soft ground.

"I didn't know you were coming," Niall says as he dusts off his pants.

"I know, it’s taken longer to get here than I was planning on and I didn’t write—which I am sorry about, honestly. I got called back from London to Capesthorne and was planning on leaving in a few days, but circumstances changed and I wanted to get here quicker," Harry reaches up, tugging a leaf out of Niall's hair and then stroking over his cheek. With nobody else around to judge, Niall willingly leans into the touch he's been dreaming about for weeks.

"Circumstances changed?" that doesn't exactly make Niall feel any _better_ about his internal panicking.

"I heard you had a late-night visit from my dear uncle," Niall's snort is far from gentlemanly, he knows, but he's still irritated about that, both because everyone lost sleep _and_ he had to deal with insults while being half-asleep. Harry's grin widens, "I got quite the earful about how rude and disrespectful to him you were."

"Is that so?"

"He blamed it on your Irish blood. Honestly, I rather wish I’d been here to see it happen because I have no doubt that you told him off with gusto," there's something _light_ about Harry now, as though a weight Niall had thought was permanent is gone from his shoulders. His smiles are coming more easily and the glitter in his eyes is unrivaled by the finest jewels Niall's ever seen.

He shrugs, "I don't apologize. I'm the last man who can usually make any judgement on decorum but even _I_ know that what he did was entirely uncalled for. Did he tell you that he wanted me to promise that I’d never propose to you or accept it if you proposed to me?"

“No, he failed to mention that bit,” Niall can’t resist kissing Harry’s thumb as he drags it across Niall’s lips, “I’m almost nervous to hear what you said.”

“I refused, obviously,” Niall answers with a frown, “Both because I don’t think he had the right to ask me that in the first place, especially with how he went on and on about how it was impossible anyway, and because—well, because I just wasn’t going to promise him that. I wouldn’t promise _anyone_ that.” It’s not like he’d ever _regret_ making that promise, but he certainly hopes that Harry’s going to give him a good reason not to regret it.

Harry steps closer, his hand sliding into the curling hair at the nape of Niall's neck, fingers pushing soft circles into his skin, "Good, I’m glad you didn’t. My uncle could use having more people turn him down outright. On top of whatever you said to him, my mother delivered him such a harsh set down that I'd be surprised if he speaks to you within the next decade.” Niall certainly wouldn’t complain about that. It might be one of the luckiest things he’s ever experienced. “I brushed most of what he said off, but one thing did concern me, hence me coming here sooner."

"Which was?"

"That you told him we weren't engaged."

Niall blinks up at him, "We're not though."

Harry's head tilts, one eyebrow quirking up, "I'd rather thought that our discussion of getting ahead of the wedding night, among other things, had made _my_ intentions clear, at least."

"Well, yes, but it's not like we made it official or anything. Neither of us actually _asked_ the question, you know? And then with my sister, the possibility that we would've all been ruined, I just thought that you might—" he squeaks when Harry cuts him off with a kiss, soft and steady even as it makes Niall's heart race.

By the time Harry pulls back, Niall's leaning on him just to stop himself from toppling onto the hard ground, "Niall, your sister's foolishness wouldn't have affected what I feel for you in the slightest, even if things hadn't been sorted out. We would've weathered it—I’d already spoken to my mother about making plans on how to salvage your other sisters' reputations if necessary. I was going to marry you no matter what happened, I just knew that it would be better for your family and that you would be happier if you knew that things between your sister and Zayn had worked out."

"Oh," Niall says dumbly, staring at Harry's plush lips, even pinker now. This is all lovely to hear, of course, but Niall would really like to resume the whole kissing part.

"You know I did it for you, yes? I don't think anything else could've gotten me to ever speak to Zayn again, much less give him a single coin. It was all for you," he kisses the tip of Niall's nose, the hollow just under his eye, more intimate than Niall could've ever imagined, “I’d do anything for you, Niall. You have to know that.”

"T-thank you, then. And thank you for clearing things up with Liam, he—I don't think I've ever seen Sophia so happy before. She hasn’t stopped smiling since he proposed."

"Do you think that's a family trait?" Harry's warm hand shifts, thumb nudging Niall's chin up until their eyes meet and all Niall can see is green, "Because I'm about to ask the same question he did, and I'd rather like to see you smiling every day for the rest of our lives."

"I suppose there's only one way to find out, isn't there?" Niall's not sure what's shaking harder: his voice, his hands, or his knees.

"True, and I _am_ a little more hopeful knowing you denied my uncle his wish," Niall sucks in a sharp breath as Harry takes both his hands, bringing them up to his lips, "You have utterly bewitched me, body and soul, since the moment you walked into Liam’s dining room in all your muddy glory and I love you, Niall Horan. I love you more than I'd ever believed it possible to love someone and I want nothing more than to spend the rest of our lives proving that to you every day because I can’t see myself being happy or content with anyone else now. I hope that I've gone from the _last_ man you could ever marry to the _only_ man." Niall barely chokes down a sob but can't manage to fight back the tear that escapes his eyes. Harry hums, gentle and soothing, and leans down to kiss the tear away, "Will you marry me, Niall?"

Niall could make a joke, roll his eyes and say something teasing like " _Oh, I suppose I could_ " or " _Well, if you insist,_ " but he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to say anything other than a watery, shaky " _Yes"_ that he hopes Harry hears. And thinks he does, since Harry tugs him against his chest and kisses him again, so thoroughly that Niall's legs do give out this time. He clenches his hands in the fabric of Harry's jacket, trying to keep him as close as possible. All the worrying, all the anxiety that’s been ruling his head since he left Capesthorne vanishes, soothed away by Harry’s lips.

"I love, I love, I _love_ you," Harry murmurs between kisses, his words like a prayer, something holy and beautiful and Niall's chest has never felt so warm, so _full._ He’s never been so _happy._

"I love you too, Harry. So _damn_ much," he whispers, pulling away only to bury his face in Harry's neck and breathe in deep, filling his lungs with the familiar scent of Harry's skin until it feels like he could burst with it. They stand there in the shade of the tree for what feels like hours, wrapped up in each other and entirely unwilling to move.

Niall feels Harry's lips on his temple, scattering kisses across his forehead, "Do you think I should ask your father's permission after the fact? I'd hate to be improper—any more than we already have been, I suppose."

"I don't think you need to. I said yes; nobody could do anything to change that."

"Good," Niall's looking forward to kissing Harry as much as possible for the rest of his life, but he's also quite set on making up for all the missed time he _wasn't_ kissing Harry. It's a debt he intends to pay with interest.

"Nialler!" Sophia's voice makes Niall lean over to look past Harry to see his twin sister sprinting across the grass, skirt held up in her hands.

"I do hope that's not a family only nickname," Harry muses, "as I think it does roll off the tongue quite nicely." He bends in a little closer, lips brushing against Niall's ear as he says, "I love you, Nialler."

Niall clutches at his coat again, knowing that his cheeks must be absurdly red right now. He wants Harry to say that again, preferably in bed and while naked. Sophia slows to a stop, face flushed, and looks them over, "Well, I was getting a bit excited, but I don't see a ring, so…?"

"Oh!" Harry jolts, "I can't believe I almost forgot, especially when it's part of why I was so delayed in coming here." Harry steps back, digging in his pockets and pulling out a small velvet box. The ring is simple, a plain gold band with a small sapphire and emerald side by side glinting in the sun, but Niall still gets choked up at the sight of it. He lets Harry slip it on his finger, marveling at how right the weight feels on his hand, and doesn't even realize he's smiling until Harry taps his nose and says, "Family trait indeed."

///

Even though Niall had said there was no reason to do it, Harry had gone to Niall's father's study as soon as they made it back into the house to ask his permission after the fact. Niall had rolled his eyes but let him go with a kiss, muttering something about how he was going to go have to break the news to his mother alone. Harry feels only the _tiniest_ bit guilty about that. He’s made his peace with the fact that he’s going to have to deal with Niall’s mother for the rest of their lives, but he’s not exactly eager to do it without Niall _there_ along with him to act as a buffer.

His discussion with Robert Horan had gone well enough. He'd said he had no objections, stating that he doubted it would matter anyway since Niall had already said yes. But Harry could hear the doubt in his voice and wasn't exactly surprised when he'd dismissed Harry with a request to send Niall in next. He's not even halfway to the parlor—or whatever room is currently bustling with noise—when he runs into Niall. "Well, that was quick," Niall murmurs, still smiling just as bright as he was under that tree.

"Your father wants to see you," Harry reaches down to take Niall's hand, running his thumb over the little gold band finally where it belongs after days of sitting in that little box. They’re actually, legitimately, _finally_ engaged. He’s holding the hand of his _fiancé._

"Course he does," Niall presses a quick kiss to the corner of Harry's mouth, one that leaves Harry fluttering and in want of more privacy, before slipping past him into his father's study. Harry wavers in the hall for a moment, torn between the _fervent_ desire to eavesdrop and the gentlemanly knowledge that he shouldn't.

"Did you need something?" he glances to his left to see Niall's sister Ashlyn staring at him from the end of the hall.

"No, er—Niall just went in to talk to his father," he motions to the now closed door. Ashlyn's eyes, paler than Niall's but just as blue, get wide.

"Ooh! Come on, I'll show you the best eavesdropping spot. Give me a moment," Harry's mouth is still open on his planned refusal when Ashlyn darts through another door. She returns mere moments later with Sophia in tow, "Come on, Soph."

"Hello again, Harry," Sophia says with a quick smile, "Did you need something?"

"Papa and Nialler are talking so we're probably going to need you to help out," Ashlyn's already leading Sophia into the small sitting room next to the study.

Harry clears his throat, "I wasn't planning on eavesdropping." Not actively, at least.

"Don't be ridiculous, this is an eavesdropping happy family and you're family now," Sophia snatches Harry by the wrist and tugs him over to where they're standing by the wall. Ashlyn's fair head is already pressed against the wall, hand cupped around her ear. "This house has no secrets," Sophia adds as she does the same thing.

Ashlyn's pointed nose wrinkles, "Remember Nialler and Breslin? I don’t think there was _any_ way we could’ve _avoided_ hearing them even if we’d tried."

"Not nearly as quiet as they thought they were," Sophia replies darkly, "Can't believe Mama believed that excuse he used about our old goat breaking the kitchen table when he spent the next day limping around the house." 

Harry grits his teeth, jealousy burning in his gut. Rather than demand to know everything about _Breslin_ so he could hunt him down, he says, "I think they're talking." It's enough of a distraction for both women. At first, Harry thinks that the wall's muffling the words more than expected because he can't understand anything.

But then Sophia hums, "He's asking if Niall really agreed. _I thought you hated the man,"_ and Harry realizes that they're speaking in Irish. He closes his eyes, focusing on the sound of Niall's voice, the unfamiliar language rolling off his familiar tongue and doing quite nice things to Harry's heart. " _I thought I hated him, but I was wrong,"_ Sophia says, _"We were both wrong about each other."_ It's an odd way to listen to a conversation, explained in real time by a third party. He'll have to get Niall to teach him some Irish, at least some basic phrases. Even if the younger man doesn't speak it often, Harry wants to know a little. " _Will he make you happy? You've been waiting for so long to find the right person. I don't want you to make the wrong choice,"_ Sophia pauses, waiting until Niall's finished speaking, _"He already makes me happy, Papa. He's everything I've been waiting for all this time. Nobody else could ever make me happier."_

Ashlyn lets out a soft but audible "Aww" which Harry thinks could either apply to Niall's words or the smile on his own face. He _will_ make Niall happy. Every hour of every day of the rest of their lives. Niall's pulled him out of his shell and Harry wants to make that effort _worth it._ " _Then I could not find it in me to tell you no even if I thought it would do any good,"_ Sophia says, chuckling as she translates her father's words, " _My only regret is that you'll be leaving our household before I'm ready for it. But I just want you to be in good hands when you do and loved the way you deserve."_ There's a long silence on the other side of the wall and when Niall's voice comes back, Harry can hear the wobble in his words even muffled as it is. Sophia's voice softens alongside it, _"He loves me more than I deserve, I think. I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of it and love him back just as much."_

"He's got that the wrong way around," Harry mumbles into the cracking wallpaper, "I'm the one that doesn't deserve him, actually."

"Think he'd disagree on that," Ashlyn says from Sophia's other side. Niall's still talking but Sophia's silent for long enough that Harry looks over at her again. She's still got her ear pressed to the wall, but her blue eyes are on his, wide and watering, so like Niall's but _not._

"Did you," she licks her lips the same way Niall does when he's nervous, "did you really help with Perrie?" Harry nods. Maybe one day, the thought of Zayn won't make his skin crawl. Probably not anytime soon though, especially since he supposes the bastard is going to be his brother-in-law now. He knows that Niall's no longer swayed by Zayn's charm, at least, and hopefully that will stick around when Zayn or Perrie inevitably come around sniffing for spare coin. Liam's got no spine, but Harry knows that _Sophia_ does, so he doubts they'll be the ones to break either. "Thank you," the brunette whispers, her tone alone enough to convey everything else.

"Wait, what?" Ashlyn hisses, pulling her pale head away to look at them both.

Sophia shakes her head, "I'll tell you later. It's—wait, Niall's talking about you, Ashe." Ashlyn presses her head to the wall so fast that there's an audible thump. The voices on the other side of the wall go quiet before Niall laughs, full-bodied and easy. Harry's knees go weak at the sound, the fact that he gets to hear it whenever he wants now. "Well, that's that. At least you can know that our father didn't talk Niall out of it," Sophia sounds distracted by whatever she didn't end up translating and Ashlyn's face is twisted in nerves.

"God help me, my sisters are corrupting you already, aren't they?" Niall teases from the doorway, leaning against the door frame with his eyebrow raised, "And to think, my father thought speaking in Irish would be enough to stop eavesdropping. I didn't think you'd enlist Soph to help."

"Technically, that wasn't me," Harry protests, "I would've gone to speak with your mother but I—well, I thought I'd wait for you."

"Smart man, you are," Niall holds his hand out, wiggling his fingers in Harry's direction. Harry's hand is barely in his when Sophia says something else in Irish, the words tumbling from her lips. Niall pauses, head tilted to the side, before responding in the same language. Harry decides that, along with teaching him Irish, he’d _quite_ like Niall to use it in bed. The way the words roll off his tongue is enough to make Harry shiver. Whatever Niall says seems to please Sophia, judging by the way her eyes soften at the edges. "Come on, pet, let's get a moment to ourselves before we deal with my mother," Harry's not opposed to that in the slightest. Capesthorne is spacious, all wide hallways and vast rooms. Little Moreton, however, feels like everything's jumbled together. But he can’t help but think that it fits the Horans, a perfect mirror to the way they operate as a tangled and tight-knit knot.

Niall guides him up two flights of stairs and down the end of a skinny hallway to a door that almost feels forgotten. He nudges the door open, jiggling the doorknob with the kind of ease that must come from doing it an infinite number of times. Harry was expecting a room, not an even steeper set of stairs that lead up to the attic of the house. "This is my room," Niall says as they reach the top of the stairs, motioning with his free hand over the dim space. The ceiling is low enough that Harry has to hunch down to avoid hitting his head on one of the exposed beams. There's a guitar and fiddle in the corner, a mess of clothes on the floor in front of an old and half-open wardrobe, and a bed pressed under the dusty window on the far wall.

"I—somehow, I'm not surprised that you sleep in an attic," Harry lets Niall guide him over to the bed, the blankets twisted and rumpled near the end, to sit down.

"Got four sisters, pet. Didn't take me too long to try and find as much privacy as possible," Niall flops back out on the mattress, his smile turning lazy and crooked as he drags his thumb over Harry's knuckles.

"Sophia did say something about this house having no secrets."

"She's not wrong. We're a nosy bunch and there's a reason that I only ever tell Soph secrets when we're on our morning walks and nobody's around," Harry lets himself tilt back, legs dangling off the bed next to Niall's as he stretches out beside him. Beside his _fiancé._

"What did she ask you about before we came up here?"

Niall licks his lips, leaving them shiny and pink, and Harry decides a delayed answer is worth a kiss and getting his fingers in Niall's hair is worth letting go of his hand. There's not nearly enough space in this bed to do nearly as much as Harry wants to do right now, but the taste of Niall's lips is good enough. Perhaps he can find a way to get Niall to come back to Gawsworth with him tonight so they can celebrate _properly._ He rolls over, slotting his leg between Niall's. "Dreamt about this," Niall whispers into the kiss, "Used to think about what it would be like to kiss someone I loved in my little haven of a room. Turns out it's better than the dream. Or maybe it's just that you're better than anything I ever could've dreamed up."

"I love you," Harry breathes out without thinking, his heart giving in to the instinctual need to say it to him.

"Love you too, Harry," Harry swallows down Niall's words, lets the taste of them bloom on his tongue like wine. He leans in to kiss him again, slower this time, savoring every brush of Niall’s lips against his. When he pulls back, Niall reaches up to cup his cheek as he explains, "Sophia was asking me if she heard me correctly when I asked my father if I could bring Ashe with me to Capesthorne after we’ve married.”

"Why would you want to bring her? Not that I'm against the idea, mind you, because I’m not," truly, his mind's more pre-occupied with the confirmation that Niall is planning to come to Capesthorne after they’re married. He was already preparing his best arguments, most of which were going to be built on _physical_ enticements, and now he doesn’t even need to use them.

"She has no interest in the whole marriage game and with Soph and I out of the house, she'd really have nothing to protect her from my mother insisting that she change entirely as a person just to find a spouse. So I told her that she could just come to Capesthorne and maybe that would give her some room to breathe. Julia gets on much better with my mother anyway and I'm hoping that she'll get some more common sense now that Perrie's not around. I think that Ashe would get along well with your sister too," Niall pauses, thumb dragging across Harry's lower lip, and then grins, "You can consider it a wedding present."

Harry kisses Niall's thumb, nips at it just to watch the way Niall's eyes get dark, "Anything that would get you to Capesthorne is fine by me, darling."

"No need to worry about that. You think I'd choose making you move in here with me and _this_ bed over moving into _your_ house with your _massive_ bed? I'm not a fool," he pauses, smile growing on his face, "Well _, possibly_ a fool for _you_ , but who's counting?"

"Certainly not me, not when I'm just as much of a fool for you."

"We are going to be the most insufferable married couple Cheshire's ever seen, you know," Niall taps the tip of Harry's nose.

"Last year, I think that thought would've horrified me. Now, I find I'm quite looking forward to being insufferable with you. Preferably on a frequent basis and on most stable surfaces in my home," Niall's still cackling even when Harry kisses him, drinking the sound down, reveling in its warmth. Feeling right at home in it.

///

As it turned out, Maura Horan and Anne Styles quickly found common ground in the illustrious world of _wedding planning._ Niall's thought of maybe eloping had earned an innocent "Oh, do suggest that to my mother" from Harry, which resulted in Niall being threatened with severe bodily harm in the most motherly way possible for even contemplating the idea.

No, _only_ a grand wedding at Capesthorne was acceptable. It was Maura who had suggested the possibility of having a double wedding—Harry and Niall, Liam and Sophia—to make the most of everyone being together. By the time Liam’s mother Karen was involved, there was no more arguing to be done. Only _waiting._ Four whole months of it, in fact, during which Niall didn't see Harry _nearly_ as much as he wanted to after all the time they'd spent apart. Sure, he took as many trips to Capesthorne as he could and Harry spent time at Gawsworth as well, but it's almost as if both Anne and Maura became belatedly insistent on _propriety_ after the engagement was finalized.

Niall quite liked being _improper_ with Harry whenever they did manage to see each other. Letting Harry fuck him on top of his desk, getting on his knees for Harry in the bathroom of Harry’s guest room at Gawsworth, stealing as many kisses as possible before someone inevitably broke them apart. Nothing in this world, he's learned, is better than Harry's dimpled smile—or smile _s,_ as Niall's learning that Harry's got a dictionary full of them that he's cataloguing one by one. He knows all the differences between his wide grin and his cocky smirk and his boyish beam and—Niall's favorite—the soft, gentle smile he has anytime Niall says, "I love you." _That's_ the one that sends his stomach fluttering every time. _That’s_ the one that Niall's most looking forward to seeing for the rest of their lives.

_That's_ the one Niall's hoping to see at the altar today, the day they’ve spent all these months waiting for.

"I can't believe it's actually happening," Sophia murmurs from her seat in front of the vanity, "It's been—I've wanted this for so long."

"I know," Niall crosses the small room they've been sharing this morning to lean against the edge of the vanity, “Me too.” Harry and Liam are somewhere else, the separation between couples carefully monitored by all mothers present to prevent bad luck.

"This is still what you wanted, right?" Niall stares at his twin like she's lost her mind. She holds her gloved hands up, "I know, I just—I just want to check, that's all."

"If I wasn't sure I'd stab myself with all those pins in your hair, I think I'd ruffle it enough to mess up all that maid's good work," she scowls up at him.

"Don't you dare. I do mean it though. You were always so much more _set_ on the whole love thing than I was," she glances at the engagement ring on her finger, the diamond glistening in the brilliant beam of sunlight coming through the window, “I can't help but feel like I've been luckier than I ever could've dreamed, finding a man like Liam who's so good and kind and already _everything_ to me. I just want to make sure that you feel the same."

Niall tilts his head, "What would you do if I said I don't? If I told you I’ve gotten cold feet now."

"Do my best to smuggle you out of here, I suppose."

"You wouldn't run away with me?" he presses his hand to his chest, faking insult. Sophia daintily tugs her glove off and them slaps him with it hard enough to make him yelp.

"Everything alright in here?" Maura says, sticking her head into the room.

"Everything's fine, Mama," Sophia answers while Niall rubs his cheek.

"Good. Niall, do try to comb your hair again. We're about to go down to start the ceremony and you look like you just rolled out of bed," without waiting for him to response, she shuts the door again, leaving him to listen to Sophia's giggling.

"It's not _that_ bad, is it?" he slouches enough to get a glimpse of his reflection. He's wearing what he thinks is the nicest suit he's ever owned, a gift technically from Harry's mother but picked by Harry himself. He'd received it in a box this morning, the navy velvet perfectly pressed and tailored to fit him perfectly. It’s the first of many new suits, he's sure, because being Harry's husband is going to mean going to London more and generally looking more _put together_ than Niall's ever bothered with. Niall's only real demand is going to be that they're not all absurdly difficult to get off. As far as he's concerned, Harry's suits look good on Harry but better on the floor, and he's sure Harry would say the same thing about Niall’s clothes.

The best thing about _this_ suit, to Niall at least, is the small forget-me-not that arrived already hooked in the buttonhole of the white shirt.

Sophia reaches up to gently work her bare fingers through his hair. It doesn't do much to wrangle the more unruly waves into submission, but it feels nice. "You look like _yourself,_ Nialler, and I'm sure that that's all Harry's going to want."

"I hope so, because it's what he's getting," Sophia rolls her eyes, patting his cheek and then barely adjusting his cravat.

"My question still stands, brother," she adds in a whisper.

Niall licks his lips, swallows as he stands up straight again, "Sophia, I've never been _surer_ about something than I am about this. About _him._ I love him so desperately it feels like I could go mad with it sometimes. Reckon I did for a while, honestly. But I promise you, petal, this is _everything_ I want."

Sophia nods and he watches the way her eyes well up, "Good, good. I truly am happy for you, Niall. I don't think I would feel as happy as I do right now if you weren't the same."

He can't even bring himself to tease her when she wipes a tear off her round, freckled cheek. Not when his own throat is getting tight too, "Agreed."

The door opens again, revealing _both_ their parents this time. "Well, are you two ready?" their father asks, rocking on his feet.

"Never been readier," Niall helps Sophia stand up, lets Maura fuss over her to make sure that her dress is falling just right and pulling her veil down into place.

"Good. Mr. Styles and Mr. Payne are already at the church," Maura pauses, flapping her hands in front of her face as if she's forgotten that her fan is dangling from her wrists, "Oh, I am simply _so_ proud of you both!" She flings her arms around them, leaving Niall and Sophia to grunt as they're squished on either side of their mother's head.

Bobby sighs, "Now, now, darling, surely we'll have time for pride once it's all said and done, yes? We don't want to be late." After another break to un-rumple their clothes and attempt at controlling Niall's hair, the four of them file out into the waiting carriage. The church is on the edge of Capesthorne's grounds, as old as the house itself but in the same good condition. Niall stares up at the steeple stretching towards the cloudless sky when they arrive, knees wobbling as his eyes trail down to the open doors to the church. To his _future._ He wipes his palms on his pants and fights the urge to tug at his cravat just to loosen it a bit. It feels like his lungs are collapsing under all his excitement and nerves and anticipation.

But when the organ music starts playing and he rounds that corner into the main chapel, the only person he sees is Harry. Breathing's never been so easy then because it's just like _loving_ Harry. Something in his bones, an instinct done without him even needing to think about it. He's a little grateful then for the decision to walk with his mother down the aisle because that's the only thing preventing him from running down and trying to speed straight through the vows. Harry's a beacon guiding him home, tall and lean and beautiful and dear _God_ Niall has never been so in love. Never knew it was possible to love like this.

Harry takes his hand, fingers sure as they wind through Niall's, and it steadies him in this moment, this beginning. Brings him to _life_ just like that, as if he'd been spending his entire life sleepwalking and now he's wide awake. Harry kisses his knuckles, green eyes vivid and glittering down at him with the same kind of anticipation. "You're wearing it, right?" he murmurs as he pulls Niall off to the side slightly to let Sophia come down the aisle. Niall reaches up with his other hand, lightly tapping at the spot where the flower's tucked into his shirt. "Good," Harry squeezes his hand and Niall squeezes back.

Niall stumbles over his vows only once, mainly because he was entranced by watching how Harry's plush lips curved so effortlessly around the words "I do" _,_ but he recovers quickly and doesn't end up swearing like he was afraid he would. He doesn't drop the ring either, even though his hands are sweaty and his fingers are trembling.

And he knows that there's an audience, but it all fades away when the priest pronounces them as _married_ and Niall finally, _finally_ gets to do what he's been waiting for. He gets to kiss his _husband,_ the man he _loves._ He kisses Harry, sinks into his chest and curls his arms around Harry's shoulders, and cherishes every second of it.

///

Their suits have long since been discarded to the floor, piles of fabric bound to suffer the indignity of wrinkles. There's matching forget-me-not blooms on the bedside table, blue petals standing out against the dark wood. The blankets are halfway off the bed, a belated attempt to make them still usable for whenever they finally decide to fall asleep.

But all Niall cares about is the sight of Harry below him, eyes blown out with desire as he watches Niall riding him like it's the last thing he's ever going to do. "Fuck, fuck, _Niall,"_ he hisses, tightening his grip on Niall's waist. He's going to leave bruises behind, and Niall wants them. Plans on getting even more of them now and leaving some of his own right back on Harry too.

"Come on, pet," he pants, feeling his thighs burn from the pace he’s set for himself but refusing to stop or slow down until this is finished, until they’ve both hit that peak they’re chasing together, "Let go for me."

With a low swear, Harry plants his feet on the bed and fucks up into Niall _hard,_ leaving Niall's hands to scramble for purchase on the headboard just to stay upright. He doesn't even get a chance to touch himself when Harry's cock nudges _straight_ against that bundle of nerves and everything goes white and fuzzy. He groans, spilling over Harry's chest in thick white streaks, body clenching around Harry's prick with the aftershocks. "Fucking Christ, Niall, I—" Harry rolls them over without pulling out, pushing Niall's thighs up and apart. Niall's too dazed to do much else but reach up to pull Harry's wet mouth down to his. It's a sloppy kiss, more tongues and air than anything else, but neither of them can focus or stop whispering out a fevered chorus of "I love you".

Harry comes with a rough moan, pushing in hard and then grinding his hips against Niall's arse as he spills inside him. Niall can feel the warmth of it filling him up and shivers again, just enough of a spark to know that this isn't the last time he's coming tonight. Harry slumps on top of him, all sweaty long limbs, face buried in the crook of Niall's marked up neck. "God, I love you so much," he mumbles as he shifts just enough to pull out of Niall without getting up.

"Love you more," Niall replies, trying his best to catch his breath with Harry's weight on top of him. "So, then, how'd our actual wedding night measure up to the first time?"

Harry slowly sits up, pushes his wild curls out of his face and cocks his head to the side, "You're asking me what it feels like to make love to my husband? How it compares to anything else?"

Niall squirms with giddy, unabashed delight, earning another soft smile from his husband. "That's right," he says, reaching over to grab Harry's left hand, locking their fingers together until their wedding bands are side by side.

"Well," Harry brings their hands up to his lips, kissing each knuckle and then lingering on Niall’s wedding ring, "I think it was quite tolerable."

Niall throws a pillow at his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus, I can't believe I actually am posting this but no backing out now, I guess. 
> 
> This story goes out to my best friend Kelly, who actively goaded me into writing this when I stumbled on writer's block and then read the whole thing when I was done. If it wasn't for her, my return to the 1D garbage can would never have gotten this far. Also shout out to like the 5 people I lurk on tumblr who still read Narry fics. Theoretically, I have plans for little follow up pieces but who knows if they'll ever get written so don't hold your breath.


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